


There's Something About Harry

by Barry_Manilows_Wardrobe



Series: Files of H. Potter [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Magic, Get Together, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-01 21:25:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11495061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barry_Manilows_Wardrobe/pseuds/Barry_Manilows_Wardrobe
Summary: Harry Potter is just your average Parapsychologist.  In conflict with his Department Head, D. Lucius Malfoy, and sometimes venturing into a paranormal world in order to help people in distress.Who just happens to be surveilled by MACUSA and the Ministry.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rating for profanity only.

**_One_ **

It began with what Malfoy would later explain as “an academic difference of opinion.”  Potter, who had the split lip understandably disagreed.

“You see what happened was…”

What happened was that on the morning of October 2nd, a student in Malfoy’s research course asked him whether he believed that Dr Potter’s research was valid.  D. Lucius Malfoy was the Chair of the Psychology Department, recipient of many lucrative grants, and in the words of the marketing department, “a great asset to Durmstrang College.”  All by the age of 35.  He was a fastidious man, well-dressed if not well-liked, and had a reputation for being a very hard instructor.  He also had a reputation for disliking, intensely, the professor whose office neighbored his own.  This being Dr. H. Potter.  Potter was also 35, had just attained faculty status after a protracted struggle with his faculty committee (upon which Malfoy sat), was extremely well-liked if not well-dressed, and was currently the only Parapsychologist at Durmstrang College after the retirement of Petunia Dursley.  His courses were challenging but interesting.  He was a very fair grader.

The student who posited the question, George Weasley, 20, knew exactly what he was doing.  

Malfoy, who had been in the process of going over the deplorable state of the annotated bibliographies his students had handed in, was momentarily flummoxed.  Papers in hand - Weasley’s twin brother, Frederick's, in fact - Malfoy had stared at Weasley as if he had suddenly grown a second head.  As Frederick was sitting beside him perhaps it seemed to Malfoy as if he had.  “I don’t understand how that pertains to our lesson,” Malfoy had said with his usual snappishness, buying time.  In his defense, Malfoy did not want to castigate the work of a colleague.  Even though he personally thought Potter was wasting his life, it _was_ Potter’s to waste.  He just wished it wasn’t at Durmstrang College in the office next to his own.

Their relationship had always been acrimonious.  But it had been tacitly acrimonious, never overt.  Malfoy had never put a foot out of line.  He had been professional in trying to deny Potter’s tenure.  He was polite at faculty parties.  He could even find it in himself to say hello to Potter if they happened to meet outside their offices - although Malfoy had shifted his office hours so they did not coincide with Potter’s.

“I think it’s a valid question,” this from Angelina Johnson, 20, a very promising student who had unfortunately fallen under the sway of the less studious George.  Malfoy was certain he would be asked to supply her a reference for graduate school.  Before October 2nd he would have extolled her numerous virtues.  After the events that followed, he was not certain he could do so.

“I…” It was well-known that Malfoy had strong opinions.  Many of which revolved around Potter.  The moment he opened his mouth, he knew he was going to say something he would later regret.  He couldn’t, however, stop the train once it had left the station.  “I think that _someone_ thinks it does.”

There was a general susurrus amongst the thirty or so students in the course.  Malfoy was able to calm them although he had a feeling that he had lost control of the situation somehow.  He had been completely honest.   _Someone_ thought Potter’s research was valid.  It just wasn’t Malfoy.

When he returned to his office, it was at the head of a line of students who - possibly for the first time in their college careers - had decided to take Malfoy up on his office hours.  They did not want to discuss the abysmal quality of their assignments.  They wanted to discuss Potter.

Of course, Potter had stepped out of his office.  Most of the professors and administrative staff had as something of this magnitude had never happened in the department before.  It could have gone another way.  Except that Potter was wearing some sort of a shower cap with soldered machinery affixed in such a fashion as to be completely ridiculous.  Potter did not seem to be much fazed by his headgear.  “Dr Potter,” one of the students said, “is it true that your research has no basis in reality?”

“I did not say that,” Malfoy said, trying to be heard over the hubbub.  Potter had very expressive eyes, green and open, and they had fallen on Malfoy to the exclusion of all others in the department.

“What did you say, then?”  There was a deceptive calmness that fooled Malfoy into thinking that he would walk away unscathed.  Potter was a very good-natured person and if he didn’t collect data from conspiracy theorists Malfoy would have been pleased to be considered a friend.  He laughed often and genuinely.  If a colleague needed someone to cover a class, he would.  Potter had a doctorate in Psychology with the _para_ added after a number of post-graduate positions.  If a student called in the middle of the night and he was home, Potter would talk them through whatever educational quandary they found themselves in.  Until he opened his mouth (and probably before he tried to sink Potter’s faculty appointment), Malfoy was certain Potter would have come out to change his tire in the pouring rain. He was just that sort of person.  Potter had a textbook example of a savior complex.  

“I merely stated that your research was valued by a select population of constituents who…”

“Who...what?”  Potter’s eyes had narrowed.

“...who appreciate your body of work?”  It ended on a raised note as Malfoy was certain he had just evaded disaster by … stating nothing.

“So you’re saying my research is bullshit.”

Malfoy did, indeed, think this.  He had somehow backed himself into a yes or no situation.  If he said no, he would be lying to himself and ruin his academic credibility.  If he said yes, he would be telling the truth and ruin his intercollegiate credibility.  How was it that the entire department was in today?  There wasn’t even a department meeting.  “Yes.”

The room became unnaturally quiet.  The sort of quiet that belonged to Fridays after four when all of the student body and most of the department had fled for the weekend.  The sort of quiet that Malfoy enjoyed listening to Wagner on his DVD player while grading papers.

The silence only relieved when Potter started moving towards him.  Malfoy thought it had finally come to fisticuffs.  So he closed his eyes before extending his fisted hand.

 

♥

 

“It was more of a walking into my hand sort of thing,” H. Potter - Harry to his friends and _most_ colleagues - listened to Malfoy’s explanation.  He didn’t doubt for a moment that the Department Head actually believed it.  To tell the truth, Harry didn’t even think Malfoy had it in him.  

Harry sighed.

The Spectralmeter he had loaned from Stanford had been damaged.  His lip stung where Malfoy’s fist had broken the skin.  And Malfoy had a black eye.  He had not meant to hit Malfoy, but the crowd of students had closed up around them and the momentum had brought Harry’s fist in very tight proximity to the Department Head’s eye.  It looked far worse than it was.  And, although the ink had dried on his faculty approval, he knew that Malfoy would somehow end up ahead here.  He always did.

“So you’re saying that you _did not_ throw the first punch?”  Dean McGonagall asked in the firm way she had when interrogating students, staff, or faculty.  It was accentuated by her clipped Scottish brogue.  

“Not exactly.”

“Yes or no, Dr Malfoy.”  

“Y-yes.”  

“This is simply outrageous.  Two faculty members resorting to physical violence in the halls of Durmstrang College.”  Harry thought it wise not to point out that they had kept it to their offices and not the halls.   _Not helpful, Harry_.  He stared at Malfoy through his lashes.  Malfoy had very arresting eyes: a blue so pale that they appeared grey.  He was certain they were grey and not just a product of his colorblindness.

As Malfoy was the only person he could see in color.

Harry had been born without the ability to see anything but absolutes: black, white, and grey.  He suffered from an inherited condition on his father’s side.  Until fairly recently, the concept of ‘blue’ or ‘orange’ were abstract ones.  They were simply words without explanation.  Harry knew black, white, and grey very well.  It was one of the reasons he was fond of old movies and had a black Labrador named Padfoot.  And one of the reasons he had followed rather closely the idea that humans had once not known the color blue.  

It had been rather startling when Harry met Draco for the first time.  

Petunia Dursley had been the long time Parapsychologist on staff.  She helmed a phantom department consisted of two endowed positions still funded from a generous gift made by an Elphias Doge in 1902.  He had been an eccentric and had made his money in spark plugs.  During his interview, Dr Dursley had taken him around to meet other members of the Psychology Department where they had been tucked since the 1930s.  The College had not known where else to put them. They weren’t tied budgetarily to or governed by the Psych department, but they sat with them at graduation and were responsible for three Intro to Psych courses every semester.  Most of the department had been lovely.  Flitwick the Developmentalist, a rather owl-eyed Clinical Psychologist named Trelawney, Slughorn the Behaviorist, and a host of other characters.  And then Harry was introduced to D. Lucius Malfoy.

It had not gone well.

The blacks and greys and whites had given way to a brilliant - and migraine inducing - rictus of searing color.  Or what he assumed was color.  Harry thought for a moment that he had stumbled into a rip in the seam of reality and seeing the supernatural spectrum. Or having a schizophrenic episode.  

Malfoy’s hair was what Harry discovered later was blond.  He asked Hagrid, a groundskeeper at Durmstrang, offhandedly: _What color do you suppose Malfoy’s hair is?_  It was almost white, but not exactly.  His eyes were a color he had never seen before.  A grey that was also something else.  His brows were darker, matching his lashes.  His lips were quite lovely, light but not as light as his skin.  Most of this he had ascertained over the years they had known each other.  At the time, his entire world had shifted on it’s axis.  His eyes had filled with tears while his body started shaking.

He stared far too long at Malfoy, drinking in his colors.  It was far too much to absorb.  Malfoy had given a curt greeting and then stared at Harry as if he were an imbecile.  Harry had then excused himself to the restroom.  In one of the grey and white stalls, he had broken down in tears.  

He had been certain he would not get the job.

However, Petunia Dursley had called right away.  “HR will be in touch, but I wanted to let you know that I was very impressed with your reception.  Welcome to our Department.”  It turned out that Petunia completely abhorred Malfoy.  She had mistaken Harry’s headache for dislike and immediately decided to hire him.  

Harry was certain that Malfoy thought he was touched in the head.  The shock, the jolt of seeing Malfoy never ceased to startle and delight him.  Through the assistance of his best friend (and City Councilwoman), Hermione Granger, he had been able to ascertain that Malfoy’s eyes were blue.   _Not all blues are that shade, but they_ are _blue._  His lips were a very light pink (Hermione had blushed furiously after he asked her about them).  And his skin was not white.   _It’s sort of a peachy color_ , she’d tried to explain.  Harry reminded her that he had no idea what color a peach was.   _Well, it’s that color, Harry_ .   _You should have brought an artist to this thing_ , she’d then reprimanded while picking at the cheese board.  Hermione was his default for faculty related things.  She referred to herself as his beard.   _But am I technically a beard if the person I’m bearding for hasn’t been with anyone for five years?  And it’s 2017?_

Unfortunately (fortunately?) she had started a minor flirtation with a gentleman in the Mechanical Engineering Department.  Harry thought it was very sweet although Hermione noted once _His hair is rather_ red _isn’t it?_  He’d had to remind her that he had no idea what red was.  But Harry thought he was a not unattractive and interesting man who always had a magic trick or two up his sleeve.

After Petunia’s retirement it had only gotten worse.  Malfoy had been elevated to the Head of the Psychology Department.  Harry had become the head - maybe? - of the the Parapsychology branch by dint of his being the only one in his department.  The College was dragging its heels on finding a replacement for Petunia.  Harry found Malfoy rather amusing, if particular, and had tried to treat him with professional courtesy.  He had an infinite well of patience for Malfoy.  He was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen in his life.  He just couldn’t look directly at him too long.

Malfoy had then been put on Harry’s faculty committee.  And while he had been warned by Trelawney that the omens were ill for him, he had managed it by the skin of his teeth.  Everyone liked Harry Potter.  Except Malfoy.

And so he was sitting in one of the stiff-backed chairs in Dean McGonagall’s office, eating a stale cookie, and wondering if he needed stitches.  He had bled on his shirt, the black spots fanning across his collar and shoulder.  “And you?”  She had turned to Harry then.

“Although it was not my intention, I take full responsibility for my actions.”  Malfoy scowled at him and then winced.  

“Very well.”  McGonagall sat across from them, a wide desk separating them, and just stared.  “While I should enact an academic penalty on this matter, I am not going to do so.”  Malfoy visibly relaxed. Harry took in a breath himself.  “However, this internecine warfare between the two of you has got to stop.  And it stops today.  I am thus highly recommending,” her voice said _ordering_ , “that the two of you participate in an anger management course.  Thankfully, Durmstrang does offer one.”  

She handed them both a brochure.  Last printed in 1983.  The student on the cover was wearing a pair of shorts that left little to the imagination.  “If you do not attend and complete the course, I will have to seriously consider your relationship with Durmstrang.  And I refer to Clause 394.”  Otherwise known as the _silver bullet_.  Their faculty status made them immune to pretty much anything at Durmstrang, but the Dean had the discretion to terminate their employment if a case could be argued that they posed a threat to students, faculty, administration, or staff.  

And engaging in a fight certainly fulfilled that prerequisite.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating still for language only.

**_Two_ **

Durmstrang College’s Anger Management instructor was a 70 year old former Hippie who had come to them from Berkeley long before either Potter of Malfoy even considered academia.  He wore his hair long and in a pony-tail.  He did not shave and had, in fact, plaited his beard hair.  He wore patchouli.  And he preferred tie-dyed t-shirts and jeans to more traditional career wear.  

He had also apparently come out of retirement just to teach this course.

As neither Malfoy nor Potter had classes during the short Spring Term, they had agreed to (put it off until) then.  As per the pamphlet, it was a eight week long course that created a safe empathic place that allowed one to learn their anger profile.  It utilized communication, role play, mindfulness, trigger awareness, and in some cases road rage elimination.

Although he’d had nothing particular planned for the Spring - or Summer - Malfoy wasn’t sure he was more displeased with the fact that he had to spend his time in a classroom or whether he had to spend that time in a classroom with Potter.  Potter had come to their first session in his customary dishevelment.  His hair was its usual unbrushed mop of black curls.  He had managed a pair of corduroy pants.  But in a strange olive lime color.  He had a neat button-down and then a tie with a lightning bolt on it.  Malfoy hated that tie particularly.  

“Hullo, Malfoy,” Potter said without looking at him.  It felt so perfunctory.  Harry Potter made eye-contact with _everyone_ (probably in the world) except for Malfoy.  It felt like he was always outside the in-joke.  He didn’t have the context and no one bothered to clue him in.  Not knowing what was going on prickled the fine hairs on Draco’s skin.  

“Potter.”  Malfoy stared directly at Potter, but he had let his dark hair fall over his eyes and was looking at Albie, the instructor.

“Gentlemen,” Albie was leaning against the desk as he addressed them.  “As we’re all psychologists,” _as if_ , “I’m reasonably certain either of you could offer a reasonable facsimile of involvement.  Or go through the motions of making some actual progress.  So,” Albie picked up the brochure and tore it up.  “We’re going to do this the Albie Way.”

It was then that Potter looked at him, brilliant green eyes mirroring what was probably in Malfoy’s own: _what is going on here_?  But whereas Malfoy was frowning about it, the corner of Potter’s mouth had turned upwards.  The bastard was enjoying himself.

“The Albie Way is a technique I’ve honed over the many _many_ decades I have been tasked with understanding and changing human behavior.  I want to get at the root of your acerbic interactions.  I want to guide you to an amicable relationship that allows your Department,” he looked at Malfoy, “run smoothly.  And to affirm Dr Potter’s part in it.  But the only way to do that is to break everything down to its lowest common denominator.  To walk you through the _Dumble-Door_.”  He turned to the board, where he wrote with a squeaking dry erase marker, “Dumble-DOOR: M/W/F - Meditation.  T - Roleplay.  Th - Field Work.”

“Dumble _door_ ?”  This from Potter, who had a stupid grin on his face.  Malfoy was disgusted.  It was one thing to have the eponymous Malfoy Scale carry the honor of his name.  It was a tool validated by the American _and_ British Psychological Societies.  He had published extensively.  He still had academics write him for permission to use it.  

But it was beyond the pale to have to endure a methodology built on a pun of Albie’s last name.  

It was bad enough that the Emeritus Professor was openly allowing people to call him Albie.  Had he no respect?

“Yes, I think it’s quite catchy.  It always gets a few laughs.”  Albie pointed to the board to reinforce his next points.  Malfoy, for one, was not laughing.

“Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays are for meditation.  I am a registered yoga instructor and will be guiding you through a series of meditative techniques to assist you in knowing yourself inside,” he tapped the side of his head, “and out.”  He let that same hand burst out from his body, splayed fingers symbolizing the universe at large?  Flatulence?  Malfoy had no idea.  “I may be old, but you’d be surprised by my moves.”  Potter laughed and Albie twinkled back.

So _that’s_ how this was going to be.  

At least roleplay was an actual textbook technique for therapy.  “Tuesdays are for roleplay.”  Albie produced a faded red box from behind him.  “And I mean rolling dice roleplay.  The two of you will have to work together to diagnose and cure the ills of St Ogden’s.”

This was too much.  “Do you have documented evidence of the efficacy of this technique?”

“Do you want me to forward you a bibliography, Dr Malfoy?”  

Was this the hill Malfoy would decide to die on?  He pondered this in the long moment (actually about three seconds) that he and Albie held eye contact.   _What if Albie next turned to psychotropic drugs?  Or made them listen to the Grateful Dead?_  Perhaps rolling a plastic polyhedral would not be the worst thing he could do.  

“That will not be necessary.”

“Thursdays are for field work.  The two of you will decide upon an activity that will involve the both of you spending the day together.”

Malfoy did not think this was going to go well.  

“Do either of you have any questions?”  And Albie spent the next half hour answering a series of questions ranging from how long did they have to meet everyday (four hours), how long the course would take owing to its being altered by the syllabus ( _as long as it needs to_ ), to how they would prove they had actually spent their field work together.  The last two from Malfoy.  “I trust that two adults are capable of following through on simple tasks.”

As they were not dressed for yoga and had three hours on the clock, Albie suggested that they visit the campus Starbucks.  Malfoy wouldn’t be surprised if this suggestion was entirely self serving.  “While you are there, I want you to roleplay.  In the traditional sense, which I think you will appreciate Dr Malfoy, that you are two strangers who have never met before.  But you must get to know each other.  Hopefully without resorting to violence.  I will observe from a distance.”

“We can pretend it’s a blind date,” Potter suggested as the three of them walked down the hall.  

“Fine.”  Malfoy agreed.  “But no kissing.”  Potter smiled at that.

“I didn’t know you had a sense of humor, Malfoy.”  

 

♥

 

The barista on duty clearly knew Malfoy quite well.  She was polite but not overly friendly.

She had also been one of Harry’s Psych 101 students.  Harry didn’t mind the intro courses as he enjoyed seeing undergrads start to understand themselves and the world around them.  If they did the reading, of course.  “Ginevra,” Harry greeted her as she returned to the counter with Malfoy’s tea.  It was a tall with two bags of Earl Grey.  In a staff meeting, Harry had once taken it upon himself to do the drink orders.  When it had come to Malfoy, he had said _Tea, Earl Grey, hot._  Malfoy had not been amused.

“Dr Potter.”  Ginevra had later gone into Pre-Med with an interest in Sports Medicine.  She was quite pretty and quite obviously taken with Harry.  This was not an unusual occurrence, although he was very scrupulous in his dealings with them.  He only met students in the Library within viewing distance of the Library Director’s (a Ms Pince) office.  She was married to the Head of Housekeeping, Mr Filch.  

“I’ll leave you two,” Malfoy announced on a cough.  “I’ll be by the window.”

“Caffè Vanilla Frappuccino?”  She asked with a smile.  She had a dimple in her right cheek.  A characteristic she shared with her brothers, Fred and George Weasley.  He rather liked the Weasleys.  They had once punned through an entire class period.  They had asked for references for MBAs.  Harry had managed to sneak more than a few puns in there.  But still be very professional about it.

Harry was helplessly addicted to sugar and through trial and error had found his drink of choice.  

“If you don’t mind my saying, Dr Potter, I’m quite surprised to see you with Dr Malfoy.  After, you know...”

“Oh, we’re married.”  Harry deadpanned.  Ginevra laughed.

With his usual natural grace, which was sometimes compared to a bull in a china shop, Harry stepped away from the counter and looked for Malfoy.  He was never hard to find.  The blinding white of the sun outside traced the technicolor brilliance of Malfoy.  He was sitting in one of the leather chairs with his long legs crossed at the ankle.  His bright hair was as precise as usual and his mouth was pursed.  Harry wended through the untucked chairs until he was standing by Malfoy.  “Pardon me,” he said, “but you I couldn’t help but notice your arresting sense of casual elegance.  Is this seat taken?”  

Malfoy gave him a look that clearly said _we’re actually doing this?_ before smiling up at him.  Although it was clearly forced, the smile transformed his entire face.  The skin crinkled around his blue eyes and his mouth opened saying, “That is something of an opening line.”

“Potter.  Harry Potter.”  Harry very inexpertly tried to move his Frappucino from his left to his right hand.  Harry was left handed. It was all for naught as Malfoy refused to shake his proffered hand.  “I don’t usually do things like this.  Do you mind if I have a seat?”

“No.  I doubt I could stop you from joining me.”

In the background, Albie had taken one of the high tables and was watching them.  He had a notebook and was presumably taking notes.

“That’s a nice shirt.”  

Malfoy looked confused and then said, “Thank you.”

“Would it be too forward if I say that it would look better on my--?”  

Malfoy narrowed his eyes.  “Seriously, Potter?  If that’s the type of lines you use, it’s a good thing you’re already in a relationship.”

“I’m not seeing anyone.”  Harry laughed.  What on earth?

“What about the smartly dressed woman you bring to College social events?”

“Hermione?  She’s my Councilwoman.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows seemed to jump off his face.  “Clearly I am voting for the wrong party if yours provides escorts.”

“Well, she doesn’t come as my Councilwoman.  She comes as my friend.”  Harry laughed.  “I’ll have to let her know that you thought she was a prostitute, though.  She’ll love that.”  Harry took a sip of his Frappucino.  

“Please don’t.”

“I’m gay, Malfoy.”  Malfoy’s mouth opened and then closed.  It was almost comical.  Oh, who was Harry kidding.  Malfoy’s goldfish impression was the best thing he’d seen all day.

“Oh.  I am, too.”

“Yes, I know.  You brought your partner - Shacklefold?  Cumberbatch? - to the Department Christmas party.”  Harry took a sip of his delightfully sugary drink as he wondered if Malfoy would explain his scowl.  Because he was scowling.

“It was Shacklebolt.”  Past tense was promising.  At that moment, Malfoy’s phone went off.  “It’s a timer,” Malfoy explained, the color in his cheeks heightening.  

“For how long you could stand me until you hit me again?”

“It’s for my tea, you asshole.”

Harry let it roll off his back.  The corner of Malfoy’s mouth had raised ever so slightly.  And he wondered if he could make him smile in earnest.  But more pressing, “You time your tea?”  

“Doesn’t everyone?”  Malfoy asked, winding his tea bags - there were two of them - around his spoon and wringing them before pulling them out of the cup.

Harry had to look away then.  The juxtaposition of the monochrome surroundings and Malfoy’s brilliance was sometimes just too much to handle.  It no longer startled him, but it did wreak havoc with his equilibrium on occasion.  It was, however, quite lovely in the sunny window.  He could feel the warmth on his skin and closed his eyes to enjoy it.

“So, erm, do you have any hobbies?”  It was a very random question and Harry turned back to Malfoy.  Was Malfoy actually trying to play along?

“Hobbies?”

“Yes.  Extracurricular activities that you enjoy doing.”

“In my spare time I enjoy piña coladas and getting caught in the rain.”

Malfoy actually tsked.  “At least try, Potter.”  

“Alright.  I would say my hobbies include hiking with my dog and working with LGBTQIA youth who don’t have the resources for professional assistance.”

“Oh.”  Malfoy gave him a strangely intense look crinkling the skin between his eyebrows.  Hermione had said his eyebrows were brown.  She had also said that she thought his hair was probably a dye job: _You can’t have hair that color with eyebrows that dark._  Harry had asked whether she wanted him to investigate further and she had punched him in the arm.

“And you?”

“I belong to a Port Club and enjoy travelling.”

“Where’s the last place you’ve gone?”  Harry was not even going to touch on the Port Club.   _Could_ something be more pretentious?

“French Riviera.”

Apparently yes.  “Classy.”

“And you?  Where the last place you’ve been?”

“Last Summer I finished the Virginia leg of the Appalachian Trail.  With Padfoot. My dog.”  Thinking about Padfoot always made him smile.  Even when Harry was trying to find ticks and Padfoot kept running in circles around him.

“Did you see any ghosts along the way?”  

“As a matter of fact, I found the ghost of an anal-retentive professor who had perished untimely when he realized his timer had not been properly set for Assam.”

“It is particularly tricky to get the correct brewing time for Assam.  It differs depending on the grade of the tea.”  Malfoy arched his brow.  It was a very a very _touché_ maneuver.  “What is your favorite color?”

That was easy.  “Blue.  But particularly a very light blue.  Yours?”

“Green.”  Malfoy looked down at his phone.  “Do you think we’ve satisfied the requirements of our first task?”

“What do you want to do for our first field work exercise?”  Harry wondered if he could talk Malfoy into a bumper car.  He would pay good money to see him squeeze those long legs into one.  

“I suppose you want to check out some haunted place.  Or we could make foil hats.”

“No.  That’s for our second date.”  Harry enjoyed the rush of color again.  “I think we should do something more neutral for the first one.  Perhaps a museum?”

After a long sip of tea, Malfoy said, “Alright.”


	3. Chapter 3

**_Three_ **

Potter was complete pants at yoga.  He came in a pair of ancient sweats and a t-shirt that had a hole at the collar.  Draco had brought his own mat and leggings.  

“Are you wearing tights?”  Potter asked while Draco was in a particularly compromising position.  

“They’re yoga pants.  Pants specifically designed for practicing yoga,” Draco said through clenched teeth, one leg extended upwards.  

“Don’t they constrict your, um, bloodflow?”  Potter was looking just below Draco’s waistline.

“If you’ve forgotten, we’re supposed to be meditating.”  Draco had not failed to notice that without the oversized career clothes Potter usually favored, Potter was actually in very good shape.  He supposed he had to be, having finished the Virginia leg of the Appalachian Trail.

Draco had gone to the Public Library (where no one knew him) the evening Potter had mentioned it to look into it.   If he’d checked out a book on the Trail that was between him and the librarian.

Potter was not flexible at all.  He had already fallen over twice and had amended his _Fuck_ to _Balls_ after Albie gave him a stern talking to about messing with the focus of the room.

Their first roleplaying session had been disastrous.

“So you’re actually going to play an Elven Wizard?  Named Lucius.”  Potter had been rather amused in a way that Draco didn’t particularly understand.  

“Whereas you’ve chosen a Human Cleric,” Draco knew Potter did not get the irony, “named Prongs because he has a set of antlers on his head…”

“It’s called a rack.  A rack of antlers.”

“Alright.  A rack of antlers.   _On his head_.”

“Well, so magic is real, right?”  Draco almost jumped out of his seat when Potter said that.  He sounded completely sure of it’s validity.

“In this game, apparently.”

“So says the _Wizard_.”  This time, Draco flinched and Potter noticed.

“Is everything okay?  I mean, I’m not particularly invested in this persona.  If you want me to do something else…”

“Do you realize you have a savior complex?”  

“Are you diagnosing me?”  Potter ran an agitated hand through his wild hair.  It just sprang back a moment later.

“Not officially as that would be unethical.  But you do have a sort of ‘helping people’ thing.”

“It’s called common courtesy, Malfoy.  You may want to try it.  It might blow your mind.”

“I mean…” And Draco did wonder where he was going with this.  “I mean, don’t you ever do anything because you want to?  Independent of the wants and needs of people around you.  Are you capable of being selfish?”

“Yes.  Yes I am.”  Potter did sound like he wasn’t completely convinced this was the case.  “In fact, I’m going to play Prongs the Human Cleric.  With antlers on his head.”

“Selfishness personified.”  Draco decided to let it go.  Potter was probably terminal.

Unsurprisingly, their alter egos could not agree with what to do about the situation in St Ogden.  Lucius, the Elven Wizard (who could apparently _see in the dark_ but almost died sneezing), wanted actual proof prior to stomping out to a graveyard in the middle of the night.  “Nothing good will come of this.”

Prongs, the pigheaded Cleric, demanded that they immediately go out to the graveyard and “sort out those zombies.”  Because of course a Parapsychologist - er, Cleric - would not question the existence of zombies on the say of a random farmherd.

“Do you even know what a zombie is?”  Draco had been asking the Innkeeper (who was Albie with a falsetto).  But Potter thought Draco had been directing that at him.

“Yes, I do.”  He seemed to be daring Draco to say something.  But Draco was temporarily at a loss for words.  For some reason the image of Potter in his shower cap had come back to him.  “But I would more accurately classify them as Inferi after the Latin _Inferus_.  They were first noted in the Queen Mary Psalter - which is housed in the British Library, by the way - compiled by what many assume to be an unnamed monk.  Although I believe it was a 14th century noblewoman named Margery Lestrange.”

“I’m going to assume that you once saw an _Inferi_ in Haiti.”  Draco was finding it increasingly hard to maintain the derision in his voice.   _Oh my God_.

“No.  I actually ran across one in a _fogous_ , or a cave, in Cornwall.  A colleague of mine, Cho Chang from Cardiff Metropolitan, was able to fend it off with a very large Maglite she’d brought.  And I had given her crap about it the whole trip,” Potter laughed and Draco realized he was completely, absolutely serious.  “Seriously, the thing weighed about 20 lbs.  Sadly, our camcorder’s battery had died at the wrong time and she’d wailed on it so long that it was ground to ash.  We had almost nothing to show for it.  Except some medieval piece of jewelry with a snake on it and a stone basin of rancid water.  Due to antiquities laws we couldn’t take it out of the country.  I’m fairly certain it ended up in the British Museum. And a sample of the water showed that it had some unusual psychotropic properties.”

Albie had put aside his guidebook and was listening intently.  “This is fascinating.”

“As soon as I got home, I bought one of those Maglites.  I never go to an investigation without one.”

“Did you publish?”  Albie asked.  “It sounds like it would be an excellent read.  I love those sorts of things.”

Draco _knew_ Albie was on Potter’s side.

But he also knew that Potter _had_ published on his adventures in Cornwall.  It had been accepted for publication in a very small journal called _Para_ in 2007.  Para’s subscribers were the usual bag of nutjobs: amateur ghost-hunters, conspiracy theorists, and the fifteen or so actual parapsychologists in the world.  

And the Auror Department of the Ministry of Magic.  

There had been discussions with the Ministry and MACUSA of whether to obliviate Harry Potter.  But an International Treaty with MACUSA forbade action on American soil.  They had a specific clause pertaining to Harry Potter.  An _actual_ _clause_.  The Americans thought Potter was no threat.  “We can’t just go around obliviating everyone who believes in the paranormal.  My goodness, the bump after _Ghostbusters_ in ‘84!  A lot of the funding for our agency comes from a section that exclusively produces films with a supernatural element.  It reinforces the fact that it’s not real.  I mean, vampires are so passė.  Besides, Potter is dead useful.  He’s got a nose for these things that would make him famous if he were a wizard.  We just make sure he stays in a small pond.  And we have an agent on him.”

Draco had been given the Harry Potter file around five years ago.  His previous handler had been transferred and they needed someone on him.  Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister of Magic, had a special interest in Potter.  It was his pet project.

“If I may ask,” Draco had asked many times, “What is the fascination with this one Muggle?”  Draco was of the opinion that it was a cut and dry _obliviate_ and leave.

“I, personally, find him of extreme interest.  How is it that a man with no magical talent was able to locate - and retrieve - a locket in Inferi infested waters that contained a fragment of a soul of Owle Bullock, the man who _literally_ wrote the book on Dark Magic?”

“Dumb luck?”

“It must be extraordinary then.  He found Helga Hufflepuff’s cup at a car boot sale in a field out in Sussex.  Somehow obtained a wood burning stove stocked with Gubraithian fire that he assumed was electric when he called for repairs.  There was the time he purchased a stack of blank Howlers to give out as tao hongbao for a wedding of a colleague in Beijing.  But for the grace of Sūn Démíng, who just happened to be present for the ceremony, things would have gone very poorly.  You may remember him as part of the Chinese Delegation during the World Cup.”

It was, initially, quite a lot to take in.  But Draco had seen Potter through a lot of strange coincidences.  Most recently the two-way mirror he purchased and hung in his living room.  Draco had had the bugger of a time locating the corresponding one.  Sometimes, Draco would eschew television and watch Potter reading or pouring over notes.  He told himself it was because he was doing reconnaissance.  No doubt for his next hair raising adventure.

But he probably didn’t need to watch him while he fell asleep on the couch.

Harry had somehow extracted himself and two graduate students from a Lethifold (he described it as ‘someone’s tent had gotten away’) in Cambodia using what a local newspaper reported as “the spectral form of a large muntjac.”  The muntjac being the oldest species of deer in the world.  And had, on one memorable occasion, caught a picture of a fully formed ghost - formerly a Mr Floyd Lamb of Boston - picking his nose beyond the grave.

After careful observation over a number of years, Draco had come to agree with Shacklebolt regarding Potter.  There were just too many coincidences. He’d also come to enjoy his time in the States.  Potter was exasperating and idiotic and ridiculous.  But his excitement was infectious (when the infected was not observed) and he brought an energy into the room that affected everyone.  If he was anything more, Draco had not lingered too much on that.

It was, however, a good thing Potter was the most oblivious person Draco had ever met.  

Otherwise he _would_ have to obliviate him.  Even if Draco would then have to flee the country.

 

♥

 

Harry, who usually considered himself a fit person, was a limping mass of sinew and muscle by the time Saturday rolled along.  He had finally gone to the drug store for Epsom salts at the recommendation of Hermione who found the whole thing hilarious. Particularly the part about Malfoy in yoga pants.  

Harry was reasonably certain that he would probably be able to get out of bed.  

After coffee (milk with eight sugars), aspirin, and leftover pizza, he fed Padfoot and the two of them set off around his neighboor.  Padfoot was well regarded by almost everyone who knew him.  He was a large, goofy labrador who had been a rescue.  Harry had been surprised to learn that black dogs were very hard to home.  Harry had specifically been looking for a monochromatic dog.  He wanted one thing to be as he saw it.  

Harry watched Padfoot play in the dog park near his house.  Padfoot had a particular friend, Bond the pug, who he was always excited to see.  Bond’s owner was a tall, muscular African-American named Felix Leitner.  The irony was completely lost on Potter.  Hermione had offered on numerous occasions to drive the twenty miles to take Padfoot to the park.  She likened Leitner to _a fine tower of a man._  After meeting Ron, who she seemed to rather like despite his “red hair,” Padfoot had had to settle with just Harry.

“Felix.”

“Harry.  And how are you this fine day?”

“I’m alive.  I guess that’s all you can ask, right?”

Felix was a journalist with the _Congressional Report_ .  While he usually reported on more serious matters, he loved to talk to Harry about his research.  Particularly the extracurricular sort.  “So are you still going to Romania to investigate dragon sightings?”  Felix never laughed at Harry, which he appreciated, and genuinely seemed to be interested.  Felix was a very big fan of the _Waking Dead_ and was really looking forward to _American Gods_.

“No.  I’ve had some issues at work with a colleague and have to spend the summer taking an anger management course.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“There’s always next year.  The funding I received from the Abraxas Foundation thankfully does not have a deadline.  So that’s something.  In the interim, I just heard about a place I’d like to get out to in the next few weeks.  Although nothing solid yet.”

“Where is it?”

“As per my sources somewhere outside of Griggs.”

“I think there are like ten people who live in the county.  They couldn’t narrow it down?”

“No cell reception.  But I hope to get some maps in a couple of weeks.”

Harry traded polite conversation with Felix - who wanted to see the maps when he got them - and then inherited the bench when he left with Bond.

It had been a week.

He wasn’t sure if he was going to survive Albie’s anger management course.  He was awful at yoga.  He didn’t even know yoga pants existed.  Nor now that he knew about them why all of his students wore them when _not_ practicing yoga.  He didn’t understand how Malfoy didn’t realize that marching into the graveyard would win the game.  It was clearly what Albie wanted them to do.  But worst of all, he wasn’t sure he would survive a pleasant Malfoy.

Thursday had been a revelation.  Of sorts.  They had decided that neutral ground consisted of Durmstrang’s Natural History Museum.  They both knew it existed but had never been.  During the Summer it was staffed by a student named Dean Thomas who recognized them on sight.  The awkwardness was compounded by the fact that they were the only ones in the Museum.  

And that it actually felt like a date.  Which Harry was not opposed to.  Malfoy was very attractive.  Once you got past the general tetchiness.

“Look, I’m really sorry about the last couple of days.”  Malfoy had apologized in the entryway of the Museum.  “I know I’m not particularly good with common courtesy.  And I think the only way to survive our penal duty is to try to … work together.”

It had taken every fiber of Harry’s being not to crack a joke about ‘penal duty.’  Instead, he coughed himself to some semblance of seriousness and agreed.

They had then spent most of the time in the Museum looking at exhibits.  They briefly touched upon tactical strategies regarding St Ogden (they did not agree).  “I maintain that marching into a strange graveyard in the middle of the night will not end well.  Why couldn’t we wait until it was light out?”

Harry didn’t really have an answer for that.  In the heat of the moment it had been his instinct to just _do_.  Which was always his instinct.  He wasn’t sure he’d had a plan in his entire life.  

Harry let Malfoy spend a half hour discussing yoga mechanics in great detail. He had no idea that anyone knew that much about yoga.  Malfoy’s reflection was even in color which amused Harry and also had Malfoy asking if he was paying attention.

The Museum had a very extensive bird collection.  It formed the nexus of the Museum.  Everything expanded upon that original donation.  He pointed out a display of North American owls for Malfoy’s particular notice.  “Is there any reason you brought me to this exhibit?”

“I love owls.”

“You… love… owls?”

“Yes.  Ever since I was a child.  There was an owl in the woods around our house that I thought of as a pet.”  Harry looked at the display and pointed to the specimen labelled _snowy owl_.  “She looked a lot like that, but with dark spots on her chest.  I called her Hedwig.”

“You had a pet owl named Hedwig?”

“Well, she was wild.  I first saw her when I was 11 and I think she must have had a nest nearby as I saw her until I was around 17.  Maybe 18?  I assumed she died as I never saw her again.”  Harry hadn’t thought about Hedwig in years.  It made him feel unaccountably sad.   He smiled at Malfoy as another memory came to him, “I made Stubby, my Uncle, take me to the pet store to buy mice.  I even got so far as to get her to eat from my hand.”

“Harry Potter.  Owl Whisperer.”  It was the first time Malfoy had used his first name and Harry thought he rather liked it.  But if he said so he knew Malfoy would never say it again.

“Anyway, I thought you would like this exhibit.”

“Why?”

“Well, there are always owls around you.”  

“I hadn’t noticed.”  Harry found that very hard to believe.  Malfoy noticed when he had stapled things crookedly.

Harry was incredulous.  “There’s an eagle owl that apparently really likes the overhang outside your office.  Even Hagrid mentioned it.”

“Who’s Hagrid?”

“Hagrid is one of the College’s groundskeepers.  He really likes animals and thought it was unusual for an eagle owl to be in our area.”  Malfoy looked a little shaken and Harry assumed that he just didn’t like owls.  “Hagrid collects…” Harry put that in quotes,  “...birds in an ornithology book he keeps.  He’s even seen barn owls and elf owls.  But you don’t have to worry.  They usually leave humans well enough alone.”

“I think I need a cup of tea.”

After another one-sided flirting session from Ginevra, Harry and Malfoy had taken the seats by the window again.  Malfoy set his timer and Harry enjoyed the sugary goodness of his Frappucino.  Harry was watching Malfoy’s face, the tight line of his mouth, and the fall of his bangs.  He turned his eyes away as soon as he thought he’d stared enough.  “Well, I think that went pretty well.”  

“It’s certainly been educational.”

They’d parted ways shortly thereafter.  

After the dog park and four appointments with the teenagers he was counseling, Harry met up with Ron the mechanical engineer.  Harry could tell that Ron was uneasy but had agreed to meet him.  In a public space.  “Listen.  Before we continue I just wanted to say that I didn’t know Hermione was your girlfriend.”

Harry laughed.  “She’s not.  She’s my Councilwoman.”

“Have I been voting for the wrong party.”

“She’s also one of my best friends.  I’ve known her since I was eleven.”

“So she’s… single?”  Ron looked very sheepish after asking the question and added a hasty, “Nevermind.”

“Well, I’m not going to divulge the secrets of my best friend.  But I can tell you that she has a Town Hall this Thursday night at the YMCA.”  Harry had to repeat this fact several times until Ron got it.  He was as bad as Hermione.  As neither of them had been to the bar before, they took pity on three friends who’d come for the evening’s Trivia Night and joined them so they could compete.  Along with a thwarted first date participant named Cedric who had joined them with an opening salvo of “I guess she just didn’t show.”

Harry was pants at Trivia but Ron was actually pretty good.  Cedric had aced the sports categories.  And it was obvious that Padma, Parvati, and Luc (who was Padma’s boyfriend) were pros.  Padma and Parvati were twins.  “Something tells me this isn’t the first time you’ve done this.”

“We try to come every Saturday, but we’ve had a lot of trouble filling the quota.  You guys wouldn’t be interested in coming again would you?”  Harry could tell she was talking more to Ron and Cedric rather than himself.  But as apparently neither Harry, Ron nor Cedric did anything on Saturdays, they agreed.

“You know, I’m glad I met you.  Actually met you,” Ron said as they were leaving.  “I hate those faculty things and now I actually have someone to talk to.”


	4. Chapter 4

**_Four_ **

 

As predicted, going headlong into the cemetery in the middle of the night turned into a rout.  Everyone died with the exception of Lucius the Elven Wizard.  He had been saved while Prongs, on his deathbed, had expended his last healing spell for him.  Wormtail the Human Cleric was introduced as a brother of Prongs.  “I assume you have plans to avenge your brother’s death?”

“Absolutely.”

During their yoga meditation session on Wednesday, Draco had taken it upon himself to correct Potter’s downward facing dog.  For reasons unknown to him, Potter had removed his shirt.  This had inspired Albie to suggest they all take their shirts off.  Draco had declined but finally acceded to the peer pressure.  While he thought he was in reasonably good shape for a man who swam three days a week, he felt a little inadequate next to Potter’s abs.  He had no idea how he’d managed them when Potter always walked around with circus peanuts and Mountain Dew.  He had once gotten Cheeto-dust on the copier.  Draco had had to get out some of his disinfecting wipes with much clucking about barbarism.  

Albie, who had also divested himself of his shirt, had gone on his merry way with his wrinkled torso and an ankh that he wore.

“You have to extend your spine,” Draco noted, watching the arch of Potter’s spine. 

“I don’t think that is humanly possible,” Potter had huffed out.  Although he did try to put his butt higher.  Sighing, Draco disengaged from his own pose and walked over to Potter.  “May I touch you?”

He could hear the smile in Potter’s voice.  “I knew you always wanted to get your hands on me, Malfoy.”

“If you’re going to be like that…” Draco sighed and started to walk away.  Potter was instantly contrite.

“I’m sorry.  I promise not to give you more reasons to go to HR.”

He waited a moment before turning back to Potter.  “Let’s go through the steps again.”  Potter collapsed to the carpet and then tried to build into the pose step by step.  Draco corrected with a touch here, a touch there.  Until he had his hands on Potter’s hips and realized his body was more interested in Potter than was strictly professional.   _ Merlin’s beard, the man had dimples on the small of his back. _  And Draco was in yoga pants.

This had been a very bad idea.

“Is everything alright?”  Potter asked, his head facing the floor.

“Why would you say that?”   _ Was his voice higher than normal? _

“Well, you stopped criticizing me and I thought you might have had a heart attack or something.”

Draco huffed and then excused himself to to the restroom.

Because the fates were probably against him, Draco found himself in his office on Wednesday afternoon with Potter probably pottering around in his own.  They had the entire department to themselves after Flitwick had made his farewells.  Draco had showered in the College’s gym, an experience he did not want to repeat.  Did they even sterilize the tiles? 

He was uncomfortably dressed in his emergency outfit.  A pink polo, brown flat-front khakis, and his second best pair of oxfords.  Draco took great pains with his appearance.  He had a passion for neatness that spilled over to his home and office.  He supposed it would look to most as if he had some sort of an OCD disorder.  He would have diagnosed it in someone else.  

But for Draco it had everything to do with appearing as normal as possible.  He  _ had _ gone to Princeton.  He  _ had _ done a post-doc at Stanford.  He was actually a board-certified psychologist.  None of this was Ministry maneuvering.  

During Draco’s first year at Durmstrang, Kingsley Shacklebolt (the Minister of Magic) had come under the guise of a guest speaker from Cambridge.  Draco had overseen Shacklebolt’s entire wardrobe - down to his underthings - and made sure that no matter what he wore he would always look normal.  His credentials were impeccable.  

Draco hated that Potter was a loose end.  Almost as much as he hated that Potter had squandered his potential following crank theories and fantastic beasts.  

Draco hated that Potter wasn’t a wizard most of all.  

Harry Potter was intelligent and kind.  He was also stubborn and denser than a block of wood.  His parents, Jim and Lily Potter, had died quite young in an automobile accident on the A39 near Wadebridge.  Their Renault had been completely compacted.  Harry had been presumed dead by the local papers.  He showed up on the side of the road three days after the accident with no memory of the event.  He had been dubbed “The-Boy-Who-Lived.”  It was presumed that they had been vacationing by the local authorities although land deeds showed that they regularly paid taxes on a large estate near(ish) Tintagel.  Having done his due diligence, Draco had found nothing spectacular about it.  It was a pile of mouldering ruins that had once been a Norman motte and bailey.  Muggle tourists had been taking pictures when he’d gone.

Harry had been raised by his godfather, Stubby Boardman.  Stubby, a musician who had peaked as a regional opening act with the Stones for two nights in the early 80s, was an auto mechanic in Grimmauld, Virginia.  Draco had found a spread on him in the National Enquirer wherein a former partner, Doris Purkiss, revealed a number of salacious secrets about their long term relationship.  None of which mentioned Harry Potter.

Draco had found Grimmauld, Virginia a rather insular place.  No one would talk to him and for a while he thought his car had been followed.  He had had to use a car as he discovered that it something prevented apparating into Grimmauld itself.  It was impossible to flood the town with strangers, so the Ministry had had a team camping in the State Park - just outside the anti-apparition point - trying to figure it out.  They were stalked by wolves at one point and nearly froze to death after trying to use Muggle camping technology.  Ultimately they concluded that it was probably due to a natural substance that bore further study.  By a team other than theirs.

Using county maps from the 1830s, Draco was able to locate the Black Plantation.  It was a lopsided antebellum mansion that had seen better years prior to the twentieth century.  If one considered it’s past to have been better years.  Draco did not.

Under the guise of an electrical repair person - having caused an outage beforehand - Draco was able to meet Stubby Boardman.  And his partner.  Who was not Doris Purkiss.  In fact it was a very erudite gentleman by the name of Rom Wolf.  Mr. Wolf was an elementary school teacher.  Draco had found nothing at all strange about the house or Harry’s Uncles.  And had discovered that Mr. Wolf made an excellent cup of tea.  Albeit iced.

He had managed to get ahold of Harry’s primary, middle, and high school records.  Outside of a few detentions and a remedial chemistry course, nothing was out of the ordinary.  The only thing of note was a small article in the  _ Banshee _ \- also the name for the Grimmauld High School football team - regarding a local boy (Potter) who had received a commendation from the County for having located a lost girl named Katie Bell.  She had fallen into an old mine shaft.  When asked about it, a 12 year old Harry had simply stated that he’d thought on the issue and then just knew where she was.  No one had questioned his testimony.

After High School, he attended the University of Virginia and then did his doctorate at UC Berkeley.  Around his time at Berkeley, the Ministry and MACUSA had started to monitor him.  These were the years when he discovered the horcrux in Cornwall and discovered that Inferi existed.  He had done two post-docs that had opened his eyes to parapsychology.  One in the lab of a Gellert Grindelwald and another with Theophilus Lovegood.  MACUSA had files on Grindelwald and Lovegood, but the Ministry was not as interested in them.

He had gone from his last post-doc to Durmstrang.  Just shortly after Malfoy had started.  

Malfoy knew he had a black lab named Padfoot.  That he hadn’t been in a relationship with anyone (other than Hermione Granger) for nearly five years.  Draco had made the notation that Hermione Granger was not, in fact, his wife or girlfriend after Potter had mentioned it.  Hermione and Harry had been pen pals for years before they met in person.  He wondered why his last handler had not added that Potter’s preference ran to males.  

He never thought to wonder why it mattered.

And at the moment, Harry was in the office next door, doing Merlin know what, listening to Led Zeppelin.  Wait, no, he was  _ singing  _ Led Zeppelin.  He was not quite in tune.  

While Draco was sitting in his office waiting for an owl from Shacklebolt.  Wondering if Potter and this groundskeeper, Hagrid, were watching now for any signs of an eagle owl.  Although Shacklebolt usually used a common barn owl.

“ _ Mine's a tale that can't be told.  My freedom I hold dear.  How years ago in days of old when magic filled the air… _ ”

Draco listened to him singing as he boiled water for tea in the electric kettle he kept in his office.  It allowed for varying temperature to accommodate different teas.  It was probably his most treasured possession.  He had a very strict policy of not using magic unless he absolutely had to.  Even though he would have liked to soundproof his office.  The College had denied his facilities request citing budgetary reasons.  Very vague budgetary reasons.

The kettle had just come to boil when he heard the tap of a beak on the glass of his window.  Shacklebolt’s barn owl stood on the sill, ruffled and probably hungry from the Transatlantic flight.  Draco was in the process of opening the window when Potter said, “I told you there was an owl outside your window.”  Potter was standing right behind him with some sort of a torc with strobe lights on it around his neck.

When Draco started, not least of which due to being temporarily blinded, the barn owl flew off in an agitated rustle of feathers… with the letter.  “M--Jesus Christ, Potter.  Don’t you knock?”  Draco had brought his right arm over his eyes in a protective gesture.  

“I..didn’t even think to do that.  But you have an open door policy…”

“Please shut that… necklace off.  Now.”  Harry fumbled, but complied.  Malfoy sucked in a very loud breath.  He was very annoyed.  And his vision was spotty.  “Okay, new policy.  You cannot enter my office unless you knock _and_ _I ask you to come in_.”

“Malfoy.”  Potter looked at Draco like he’d never seen him before.  “Did you know that you’re English?”

Draco realized that Potter had probably startled away his affected American accent.  That bore some thought.  But in the interim, Draco affected his most sardonic of looks and haughtiest of tones, “Get out of my office, Potter.  And don’t come back unless I summon you.”

 

♥

 

Harry went to bed on Wednesday night and woke up Thursday morning completely convinced that Malfoy was a closet Englishman.

This led to many theories as to why he would be hiding it.

Had he stayed beyond his visa?  Did he have an outstanding warrant for his arrest (obviously for smuggling port) and was living on the lam?  Were there too many British professors in the US?  Was he in a witness relocation program?   Some sort of an alien who couldn’t discern the differences between human accents?  Padfoot, who had been listening to these theories at the crack of dawn Thursday morning with head cocked to the side, seemed to dismiss them all.  Probably because Harry was preparing his kibble.  “Or is he some sort of a top-secret MI6 agent working deep undercover?  Sent to thwart my paranormal investigations?”

Strangely enough, the last sounded the most promising.  

Lots of randomness, of the non-paranormal, in his life seemed to click into place.  He had been followed from journal to journal by a commentary writing campaign presumably to ruin his credibility.  It had had the opposite effect.  A lot of readers now thought he was being targeted by governmental agencies.  The writer always used permutations of the Latin  _ draconem _ .   _ Cadmus Thrakon.  Edmund Drayce.  Tatsu Ryu.   _ A  _ Dr Tinnin _ from Turkey who was reputedly an editor for a journal that had been outed as a front by Pince.  She was a lovely woman whose weakness for Jammie Dodgers (which Harry bought in bulk from an overseas retailer) had been very helpful over the years.  It had escaped his notice that Dr Malfoy’s first name was Draco.  But not Pince’s.  He had apparently rearranged her psychology section and incited her wrath.

Or the Ford Anglia that sometimes sat down the street from his house on Privet Lane.  He had never seen a Ford Anglia in the US before.  And the drivers wore some sort of dresses.  Literal dresses.  It was probably a cult.

And there was the cat that had sat on his backyard fence all day until Padfoot finally chased it away.  Harry had never seen a cat who had let a bird or butterfly by.  And this one had.  He assumed it was some sort of a shapeshifter.

Hermione thought he was crazy.  But Harry knew.  Just like he knew the Marvolo family in Little Hangleton  _ had _ had a ghostly presence.  It had been tied to a strange ring Miss Marvolo had purchased from a secondhand shop, obviously holding onto a tragic past that cursed the owner.  She had opted to sell it on Ebay rather than keep it.

So it worked out quite nicely that Malfoy had exasperatedly suggested that they go to a wine and cheese tasting for their field work on Thursday.  Harry quite liked cheese but did not like wine.  He decided he was going to get Malfoy drunk and try to knock some English out of him.

Harry, who did not own a car, met Malfoy at the venue.  He had walked about four miles in his black suit.  He had five of the same suits so he would never inadvertently match the wrong colors.  Something Hermione had noted was  _ verboten _ .  As he very rarely wore them they were at least ten years behind the fashion times.  Harry only had white socks, so he wore those under his ancient dress shoes.  When he finally got to the wine shop, he ducked into the bathroom to wash up (only managing to soak his left cuff), and met Malfoy.  

Malfoy, as per usual, was meticulously dressed.  Harry thought Malfoy’s suit looked a bit too small and his pants were about an inch or two too short.  You could see his socks.  “Where on earth did you dig that up?”  Malfoy looked Harry up and down with a wince.  

“From the womb of Lily Evans Potter.  Or so I’ve been told.”  It took every ounce of Harry’s willpower to not add  _ guv’nor _ .

For a moment, Harry thought he caught a flicker of laughter in Malfoy’s eyes.  But it was so fleeting that he wasn’t sure.  “Well, it will have to do.  We must go over the rules.”

“There are rules to tasting wine?”

“Yes,” Malfoy drawled it out like it was obvious.  “Firstly, you can spit after your taste, but you may also swallow.”

He couldn’t.  He absolutely couldn’t.  Was Malfoy intentionally setting him up?  “Do you spit or swallow?”  Harry tried to keep his voice as even as possible.  It came out sounding slightly husky.

“Oh, I always swallow.”  And for the briefest of milliseconds it was back.  A mote of humor in Malfoy’s pale blue eyes that was there and gone.  There were many Malfoys Harry could deal with.  But a funny Malfoy was an issue.  Because Harry wanted a funny Malfoy.  A funny Malfoy wasn’t untouchable.  He may even be reasonable.  Of course, this Malfoy subsumed his temporary weakness and continued.  He explained modifiers and aphorisms.  He explained the trifecta of wines: 1982 Bordeaux, 1996 Champagne and 1970 Northern California.  “Have you got that?”

“Completely.”  And then Harry set about getting Malfoy drunk.

This was harder that he thought it would be.  Malfoy stood contemplatively over wines.  He took tiny sips and discussed leggings.  He talked to other testers at length.  Harry, who really didn’t like wine, pretended to sip by Malfoy’s side.  He talked about notes of twigs and Honeycomb cereal.  Eventually he excused himself to corner the shop owner and pay him to extend the tasting - but just for Malfoy since he seemed to have such a fine palate.  Harry had to solemnly swear that he wasn’t up to no good.

By late afternoon, Malfoy was pretty wasted.  His cheeks had gone rosy, his eyes were over bright, and he was actually smiling.  “It looks like you’ve had a good time,” Harry mentioned casually.

“This was a  _ reallllly _ good idea.”  Malfoy tilted his head back a bit and smiled at Harry.

“Are you sure you’re alright to drive home?”  

“Of course.”  But when he dropped the keys to his Audi, Harry picked them up.

“I’m going to drive you home.  You’re a menace to society.”

“Do you even know how to drive?”  

Harry tried not to laugh at Malfoy.  His voice had taken on a sweet incredulousness that he would probably be embarrassed about the next day.  “Of course I do.  Just because I choose to limit my CO2 emissions does not preclude me from having a driver’s license.”

“Alright.”  

To Harry’s horror, Malfoy had a stick.  It had been about fifteen years since he’d last drove a stick.  Mostly Stubby’s Corvette on Virginian backroads.   _ Oh shit _ .  “So where do I take you?”

Of course, Malfoy lived in a gated community inhabited by the poshest of Durmstrang faculty (of which Harry did not qualify as being) amongst lawyers, politicians, and doctors.  It was on a hill.

It took a stall out and one gear grinding - with Malfoy leaning over his shoulder to advise - before Harry figured out how to drive the damn thing.  He decided to risk taking the long way round.  He had some questions to ask.

“So, what is your favorite, er,  _ football _ team?”

“Harry,” Malfoy actually used his name.  “Do I look like someone who watches sports?”

“Well, I like, um, Leicester City.”  Harry pronounced it as spelled.  He knew absolutely nothing about soccer but he had caught a couple of games in the Hog’s Head (a faux British joint near the College) when they defied all odds to win some sort of championship.  He’d even got a free beer out of it.

“I have no idea what that means.”

“So what are your thoughts about Jammy Dodgers?  Raspberry or strawberry?”

“What the hell is a jelly dodger?”

“Jammy.”  Hrm.  This was not working.  So Harry decided to pull out the big guns.  “So that Idris Elba.  He’s a really hot  _ bloke _ isn’t he?”

“Oh, I did like him in Pacific Rim.”

This was too much.  “You watched  _ Pacific Rim _ ?”

“My God, Potter, that speech!”  Malfoy coughed before starting to recite it.  He finished in a very low voice that only broke a little.  “ _ Today, we are canceling the apocalypse _ !”  The accent he affected was absolutely horrible.  It might have qualified as Australian.

And then Harry was laughing.  He was really laughing.  “You are the most ridiculous person I have ever met in my life.”

“Oh you should talk!  You were wearing a computerized shower cap - a shower cap! - in earnest.”

“That was not a shower cap.”  

“Oh, no?  Was it some sort of a legilimency device?”  It was a good thing that no one seemed to be on the road at 4pm on a Thursday as Harry and Malfoy looked at each other at the same time.  Malfoy’s face was blazing.  Harry triumphant.

“Aha!”  Harry said.  “I KNEW you were British!”

Malfoy’s face went through so many different emotions that Harry could not keep up.  He was angry, confused, surprised, angry again, and then just a lot of things Harry had never seen on his face before.  “You. Are. An. Ass,” Malfoy settled angry on as he opened the door and got out.

“Malfoy! Malfoy!   _ Draco! _ ”  Malfoy finally turned towards Harry when he used his first name.  “Where the fuck are you going?  I’m in your damned car.”

“It would be obvious to anyone else that I am walking.”

“Get back in the car.  Seriously.”  Harry had slowed to a crawl of about 2 mph.  He wasn’t even sure if Malfoy was walking that fast.  

“No.”

“How are you going to explain a drunk and disorderly to McGonagall?”  Malfoy stopped at this.  Harry was pretty sure it was the only argument that would work.

“You wouldn’t.”

Harry pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and waved it at Malfoy.  “Want to try me?”

After a moment, Malfoy deflated and walked back to the car.  He sank into the leather seat and slammed the door for good measure.  “I don’t know how I got reduced to this.  I am the best in my field.  The best.”

“Of course you are,” Harry soothed as he negotiated the right lane and set out for Malfoy’s house again.  

“Did you get me drunk on purpose?”

“Not for any nefarious reasons,” Harry threw Malfoy his most contrite look.  He really was feeling bad about the whole thing.   _ So what _ if Malfoy was a secret MI6 agent?  He was still the only person in the world who was in color.  “Well… in the interest of complete honesty, I wanted to see if you worked for MI6.”  Now Harry was blushing.

“You’re serious aren’t you?”  Malfoy ran his long fingers through his thoroughly disheveled hair.  “Oh who am I kidding?  You believe in aliens.  Of course you’re serious.”

“Do you actually have a tooth with a cyanide capsule?”

“I do not work for MI6.  I am a Psychologist who thinks that the probability of your being completely insane is very high.”  Malfoy seemed to compose himself and turned to Harry.  “Did you really get me drunk to find out if I work for British Military Intelligence?”

“Yes.”

Malfoy laughed.  He actually laughed.  “Are you even real?”

“Pinch me and see.”  Harry offered on a grin.  Unfortunately Malfoy took him up on it.  And he pinched really hard.  “Ouch.  Not  _ that _ hard.”

Of course Malfoy’s house was a McMansion.  Where else would he live?  He handed Malfoy the keys on the provision that he drink about ten gallons of water and have a few aspirin.

“Are you just going to walk?”

“Um, yes.  That’s sort of what I do.”

“Can I call you a cab or something?”

“It’s only like eight miles to my house.  Or something like that.  I’ll be fine.”  Malfoy looked very skeptical.

“Although I’m going to completely regret this decision, would you like to at least have a cup of tea before you set off?”

“Oh, like a nightcap?  Well, an afternoon cap?”

“I’m going to disinvite you, Potter.”

“Alright.  Alright.”  If Malfoy was trying to convince Harry that he was just a normal guy, his house would not do it.  It was pristine.  The carpets were (probably) white, the walls were decorated in very hotel style artwork, and outside of the tea kettle the kitchen looked like it had never been used before.   _ There were no crumbs on the stove _ .   _ No fingerprints on any surface. _  After Malfoy opened a cabinet to get two mugs, Harry was fairly certain that most of his dishes were (probably) white.  

“Malfoy, would you be offended if I asked you if your study - and I’m assuming you have one - had a wall that opened to reveal a complete arsenal of weaponry?”

“You’re not going to let this go are you?”

Harry smiled at Malfoy in a way that actually made the other man take a step back to lean against the counter.  “I’m just  _ taking the piss _ .”

“Did you study a list of Britishisms before interrogating me?”

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies, Malfoy.”

“To answer your  _ very serious _ question, I just really like things in their place.  I appreciate order.”  Malfoy poured their tea and set the timer.  “It’s calming.  Sugar or cream?”

“Both please.”  Harry watched Malfoy put one cube of sugar in his cup after the timer had gone off.  “I like it sweeter than that.”  Malfoy put another cube in.  “Sweeter.”  Another cube.  “Sweeter.”

“Should I just put the whole box in?”

“Um, no?”

“You know consuming this amount of sugar is going to rot your teeth, right?”  Malfoy put the box of sugar cubes on the table.  

“Probably.”  Harry put two more cubes in his tea.

They ended up having a mostly amicable conversation about Slughorn’s recent publication in the  _ Journal of Abnormal Psychology _ on bulimia before Malfoy kicked him out.  

Harry was still not completely convinced that Malfoy did not work with MI6.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Five_ **

 

When Narcissa Malfoy arrived, she arrived in style.  She also arrived via the completely non-functional fireplace of the Delacour Hotel on 59th and 5th.

Draco’s mother took time to dust off her cashmere robes and freshen up her flawless makeup and hair.  She was probably (Draco’s manners were too good to ask) in her late 50s now, but she had aged very gracefully.  Like Draco, she took great pains with her toilette but for entirely different reasons.  “My love,” she finally said, with unfeigned passion, as she kissed both of Draco’s cheeks.  There were only three things Narcissa loved in life.  Draco, consequence, and her ill-tempered Spaniel, Bellatrix.  Bellatrix was currently in her handbag.

“Mother.”  Draco adored his mother.  “I’ll admit I was a little surprised to get your summons this morning.  Is everything alright?”

“Of course, of course.  I just missed you.”  She removed her gloves - traveling by floo was always so dirty - and then added, “And I thought you needed some culture.  What with being among  _ Muggles _ for so long.”  She didn’t understand most of what he did.  She had understood when he’d joined the Ministry, although why he refused to utilize the multitude of Malfoy contacts to become an attache or secretary was beyond her.  She didn’t know why he had gone to a Muggle Colleges.  She didn’t understand his living with Muggles.  And she definitely didn’t understand why he had to live with Muggles in the States.

“And what are we doing this time?”

“I thought a little shopping.  And then a  light repast at Maxime’s.”

There was never a ‘light repast’ without ulterior motives.  “And who are we meeting at Maxime’s?”

“Oh Draco, why do you always assume that we’re going to meet someone when we dine with each other?”  He stared at her with indulgent incredulity.  “Oh, alright.  Andromeda Tonks is doing a term at Ilvermorny - although Merlin knows why - and I thought it would be lovely if you met.”

Outside of the fact that Andromeda Tonks - if she was doing a ‘term’ - was  _ at least _ fifteen years his junior, there was the “little bump” of Draco not having found a good time to mention that he was in love with a man.  That conversation would have to be tabled for another day.  “Merlin’s beard, are you trying to marry me to a child?  You know there  _ are _ laws about those sorts of things.”

“Don’t use that sort of language with me, my love.”  He didn’t mention that she had done so.  “It’s just a preliminary meeting.  Her parents set it up.”

“Did  _ she _ agree to it?”

It turned out that she hadn’t.  After hours of shopping - Narcissa had nothing against expensive Muggle shops - they met up with the woman in question.

She had pink hair.  And a nose ring.  

She also had green eyes.  But they weren’t nearly green enough.

Draco was doing his best not to laugh.  It was apparent that Andromeda had just as much interest in being there as he did.  They had a very amusing talk about social justice and toxic masculinity.  That Draco completely agreed with her did not impress Narcissa much.  

The highlight, the absolute highlight, of the evening was when Bellatrix managed to extricate herself from Narcissa’s handbag and go for the waiter’s leg.  “What an awful little beast” Andromeda had commented - after Draco had managed to pull Bellatrix off the waiter, apologizing profusely - to much silent agreement from Draco.

After they made their farewells, Narcissa chastised, “You didn’t have to encourage her, my love.  Women these days are not like they used to be.”

“I would have no idea about that.”

“Of course not, my love.  We’ll have to just extend our search further afield.”  She prattled on a bit while Draco walked alongside, stopping only for lavender macaroons she saw in a shop front.  She did like her macaroons.  Eventually she noticed that he wasn’t responding, even reflexively.  “What’s wrong, Draco?”

Draco snapped to attention and smiled.  It must have not been very convincing.  “Oh Merlin’s heart, you’re seeing someone aren’t you?”

“No.  I’m not.”

“Oh, it’s unrequited.”  She stared at him in the misty way she had when reading a particularly delicious romance novel.  It made Draco slightly uncomfortable, really.  She stopped to put her hands on either side of his face.  They were warm and smelled of her particular sachet: rose and musk.  “Well, anyone who doesn’t see that you are the most wonderful person in the world is an absolute fool.  You have been nothing less than a joy to me all these years.  I may not understand some of the things you do, but I am so very proud of you.”

*

Draco hated the stakeouts the most.

At the moment, only Dawlish was in the country, so as per Shacklebolt’s missive - which he’d had to chase down through the woody areas of the College - Draco had to go too.  He had had to use Polyjuice because there was no way he wouldn’t be recognized.  Currently he looked like a 6’ biker in leathers and quite a few tattoos.  Dawlish was in his Auror robes.

“So while I was in Vegas…” Dawlish had most recently been tailing the actor Eddie Redmayne due to reports that he had somehow acquired a crup instead of the Jack Russell terrier he had intended.  The double tail had been assumed to be a genetic abnormality by the breeder.  Who just happened to be a person of interest named Mundungus Fletcher.  He had been using the pseudonym Fletch Mundy.

Draco was of the opinion that Dawlish was dragging the case out for his own reasons.

Draco had zoned out about the time Dawlish had gotten to the point where he’d won about $1000 in a slot machine.  Apparently he had been feeding nickels in it for hours while he was watching Redmayne and had hit the jackpot.

From their vantage in the Ford Anglia, he could just make out Potter’s house.  He lived in a very ordinary brick two-story in a very ordinary neighborhood.  Thankfully, like most Americans, everyone on the block owned too many cars for a driveway to accommodate.  So they didn’t stick out too much parked between a Toyota Corolla and a Honda Civic.

Potter seemed to be having a party.

Draco had watched as most of Potter’s neighbors, Hermione Granger, a red-headed man he recognized from faculty gatherings, a very handsome African-American man with a pug, a pair of twins , a youngish blond man with a bottle of wine, Flitwick, and Trelawny - the traitors! - come to the door and be admitted.  Draco had no idea that Flitwick had a partner.  She was tall, blond, and unusually attractive and seemed to adore him.  Thankfully for Draco and Dawlish, the party had moved to the backyard.  Potter was grilling and a string of multicolored lights had been worked through his chain link fence.  He was the only one on the block who didn’t have a 9’ wooden privacy fence.  Although he did have a bug zapper that kept snapping.  And Padfoot of course.  Draco had never been allowed to have a pet.  And the damned dog seemed to adore Potter.  Like everyone else did.

“I don’t know why we have to do this,” Draco said suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s highly unlikely that Potter is going to do anything out of the ordinary tonight.  Or probably any night.  I should be in my bed watching Gilmore Girls.  I have yoga tomorrow.”

Dawlish stared at him as if he had two heads.  “Malfoy, your embracing of Muggle culture is really quite disturbing.”

“It’s not that bad,” Draco said staring wistfully out the window.  The leather vest he was wearing was really too hot for the May night.  He couldn’t believe that anyone would choose to wear a leather vest.  In public no less.

“You know your whole handling of this situation has been somewhat… unconventional…”  Dawlish was working up to a point, Draco was sure of it.  But someone knocked on the window.

Draco turned and Harry Potter himself was standing there.  He was holding a plate of what looked like hamburgers and two Miller Lites.  Draco and Dawlish exchanged a look before Draco rolled down the window.  For a moment he forgot that he was a 6’ biker and couldn’t for the life of him think of an explanation that would put Draco Malfoy in a Ford Anglia outside his house.  “Hello gentle--er, guys.”  Potter’s eyes fell on Dawlish in his robes and seemed to flounder at misgendering.  “Since you’re going to probably sit out here all night, I thought I would at least feed you.”  Almost mechanically, Draco accepted the hamburgers and the Miller Lites.  

“I also wanted to warn you that soliciting was illegal pretty much everywhere in America.”  The twinkle in Potter’s green eyes was mortifying.

“Oh, we’re not…” Dawlish rushed to explain.

“I’m not judging.  It’s just an FYI.”

“Darling,” Draco said, putting a meaty hand on Dawlish’s thigh.  Dawlish started, but Draco held him fast.  “Perhaps we should take this to a motel.”  Dawlish was so red Draco thought he was going to melt his headrest.  

“Night!”  And Potter was off.  

The Ford Anglia left about two minutes later.

 

♥

 

“So I know we do field work on Thursdays, but do you want to shift it to Saturday?”  Malfoy had not been looking Harry in the face for most of the week.  He also hadn’t summoned him to his office, so Harry was yelling at him from outside his office.  He had a package of Twizzlers in hand.  They were probably just plastic, but he loved them.

“Potter, why are you yelling at me?”  

“Because I’m not allowed to come into your office.”

“You can come in,” Malfoy said it with more than a teaspoon of trepidation.  “So long as you touch nothing.”

Malfoy’s office was as neat as his house.  With the exception of the grant he’d been working on for about three months.  He didn’t have a desktop and Harry assumed that he had a laptop that he kept in a drawer.  “So can you do Saturday?”  Harry had dropped into one of the fancy and very uncomfortable chairs that Malfoy kept for visitors.  

“Why Saturday?”

“Well.  Some friends and I have started doing a trivia night at the Hog’s Head.  We’re pants at it and we need a sixth.”

“And this necessitates me how?”

“Well, as you’re one of the smartest people I know, I thought you would be able to help us win.”  Harry was certain this line of reasoning would work.  Malfoy’s ego was capable of being stroked.  Malfoy looked at him for a long while, almost like he was trying to read his mind, and then relaxed.

“Alright.”

“Great.  I’ll see you at seven.  On the nose.”  Harry scrambled off the chair and started for the door before turning back quickly.  For one moment, Harry thought Malfoy had actually been looking at his ass.  “But you need to dress like a normal person.”

“I dress like a normal person everyday.”  Malfoy’s face was slightly flushed.

“I mean, you have to wear jeans.  And maybe a t-shirt.  And tennis shoes?  You have a pair don’t you?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Malfoy was already at the Hog’s Head when Harry got there.  He was on time, but Malfoy scowled at him anyway.  “You’re late.”

Harry looked up at the clock over the bar.  “It’s just 7.”  Harry took a moment to give Malfoy the once over.  He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but they looked brand new.  The jeans were stiff and his dark t-shirt was completely uncreased.  He was also wearing a blazer.  “Malfoy, you need to take that blazer off.”

“Why?”

As Harry couldn’t put his reasoning into words, he decided to order a beer instead.  “Can I get you something?”

“I’ll have a gin and tonic.”  Of course.

“Shaken, not stirred?”  Malfoy actually smiled and Harry smiled back.  “You should do that more often.”

“What?  Drink gin and tonics?”

“No, smile.  It makes you look less severe.  More approachable.”

“And approaching me is something to be desired?”

“Yes, very.”  Malfoy gave him a strange look that he couldn’t quite read, shaded as it was in the dim lights of the bar, and then turned to collect their drinks.  “Gin and tonic.”  Malfoy accepted the drink.  “Shall we get a table?”  Malfoy followed him to a curved booth that looked like it would be a little tight for six.  Hermione was the first to arrive.  

“Harry, God the traffic is a bitch tonight.  I’m going to get a glass of wine.”  When she came back, she noticed Malfoy.  “Oh, and who is this?”  The way she said it sounded like she knew very well who he was.

“Draco Malfoy,” Draco introduced himself.  Hermione gave Harry a glance that Harry tried to cut off with a hastily drawn finger over his throat.  

“Well, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Dr Malfoy.”

“The pleasure is entirely mine.  Your proposal to ban Main Street vehicular traffic was a very good idea.”  It was pretty smooth.  Even Hermione looked impressed.  And she did not impress easily.

Ron joined them with a “You look familiar.”  And then the rest of the group arrived.  Padma was in a dark turquoise dress and Parvati in shocking pink.  Padma’s boyfriend was late, but just in time for the quiz.  They decided to call themselves the Peacocks.  It was Malfoy’s idea.

As he had suspected, Malfoy was actually really good at pub trivia.  He was also extremely competitive.  At one point Luc had to intercede before Malfoy started a brawl with the Fizzing Whizbees at the next table.  And he’d not really been drinking, perhaps taking into consideration the events following the wine tasting.  When they won, Malfoy asked what the prize was.  “It’s a pie,” Harry informed him.

“A… pie?  We won a pie?  Like steak and kidney?”

“Not exactly.  It’s an  _ American _ sweet pie, Malfoy.  I think it’s raspberry this time.”

“Oh, fuck off Potter.”  But nothing could really get Harry down.  He was with some of his favorite people and Malfoy.  Malfoy was at a bar with Harry and that was pretty sweet.  At least in Harry’s opinion.  

At some point, Hermione broke up the party on account of having a very early zoning vote the next day.  Ron followed very soon after.  And then Malfoy realized the time.  “I should get going as well.”  

“I’ll walk you out.”

What happened next was completely unexpected.  Ok, if Harry was being completely honest it was not entirely unexpected.

Harry walked Malfoy to the door of his Audi and leaned close enough to make an off the cuff comment about having to breathalyze him to see if he was sober enough to drive.  As Malfoy laughed at him, Harry caught the tang of berries on Malfoy’s breath, the smell of his aftershave.  He breached the distance between them and let his tongue guide his mouth to Malfoy’s.  He was delicious.  Malfoy’s mouth opened and Harry claimed it.  He wasn’t very good at half-measures.  He was an all or nothing sort of guy.  And this was everything.

And then Malfoy was pushing him away.  “We can’t do this, Potter.”

Harry wanted to ask why not.  He  _ really _ wanted to ask.  But he respected Malfoy’s boundaries.  “Of course, I’m sorry.”

“There is a reason no fraternizing laws exist.”  

“Yes, of course,” And then Harry gave Malfoy a rather rueful smile.  “I hope this won’t make things awkward for you.  Since we still have a few weeks of the course left.  I promise I won’t do it again.”

“That’s probably for the best.” 

“Alright, so I’ll see you next week then,” and Harry walked off before he did something else stupid.  


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

 

“I can’t do this anymore.”  Draco, in his Auror robes, said facing Shacklebolt.  It was Sunday and he’d portkeyed to London.  Kingsley was still in his dressing gown as they were in his garden taking breakfast.  

“I’m assuming this has something to do with Harry Potter.”

“In a matter of speaking, yes.”  Draco was sticking to tea at the moment.  He had used his wand to steep it to the perfect consistency.

“So yes.”  Kingsley finished his eggs before continuing.  He looked at Draco a long time.  Long enough that Draco began to suspect that he were he not an accomplished occlumens Kingsley would have drawn out every misdeed Draco had ever performed since the age of three.  “May I ask why you are requesting this reassignment?”  Kingsley had apparently given up on his quest to read Draco’s mind and went back to his paper.  He had been reading the Daily Prophet when Draco had arrived, unceremoniously, on his doorstep.

“It’s become…” Draco fished for the right word.  “Complicated.”

“You know,” Kingsley did not look up from the Prophet.  “You’re not the first Auror to fall in love with Harry Potter.”  Draco felt his heart fall into his stomach.  He was really losing his edge.

“I’m not in love with Harry Potter.”  Draco fiddled with the tea cup.

Shacklebolt did not even respond to that.  “You may recall Romilda Vane?”

“She was Potter’s previous handler.  Atrocious notetaker.”

“Yes.  She tailed Potter for a while.  Not as long as you have but through most of his time at Berkeley.  At one point she was a potions partner or something.  We had to pull her when she got too involved.”

“They were involved?”  Draco was starting to feel sick.  The thought of Harry in bed with Romilda, who Draco was told was not an unattractive agent, lanced him with such a searing stab of jealousy that he was _very glad_ Kingsley was not making eye contact.

“Not as such.  She was caught brewing _Amortentia_ though.  We tagged her when it came up that she was buying ashwinder eggs.”

“Wow.”  Or, more precisely, _thank Merlin_.

“As I know you, have known you since you were a boy, I know that you would only be requesting a transfer if it was absolutely necessary.  Is it absolutely necessary?”

“I believe so.”

Kingsley looked pensive.  “If you’re _absolutely_ certain we can arrange a position at Cambridge.  Dippet is still in place.  I’m assuming you want to continue as a Muggle psychologist?”

“I _am_ a psychologist.”

“With particular extracurriculars, yes.”  Kingsley sat back and looked at Draco.  “I can’t say I’m particularly pleased about this.  But I can start the paperwork for a transfer.  You’ll have to remain in place until we can find a replacement. Dawlish is still on the Redmayne thing and I can’t get someone to immediately replace you.”

“I think I can.”  As long as Potter didn’t kiss him again.  Or more particularly as long as Potter didn’t kiss him again even though Draco wanted him to.  A lot.

 

♥

 

Harry had found it in a Head Shop in Haight-Ashbury.  

You couldn’t really find anything good there anymore.  It was a tourist strip essentially selling knock off drug paraphernalia and as Rom would say: _Commercialized the idealism of youth, Harry_ .  And then Stubby would add: _Fuck the man, Haz._  

Something, however, had drawn him to the _Loving Spoonful_ .  Harry was fairly certain it was the note that they were now selling ice cream.   _Treacle_ ice cream.  He had never seen treacle ice cream in his life and had fond memories of the treacle tarts Stubby would make.  It was the only thing his Uncle knew how to cook.  Harry had taught himself how to make Mac ‘n Cheese early for this very reason.

The ice cream was actually pretty good.  Due to this, Harry had dawdled in the store for a while.  Sifting through tie-dyed anything and bongs, Harry found something rather strange.  A small gold pendant with what looked like a tiny hourglass inside it.  Compared to the rest of the things in the store, it looked expensive.  Far more than the $15 it was labelled as. “What is this?”  He asked the girl, who couldn’t have been over 14, behind the counter.  

“I have no idea.  It’s been there as long as I have.”

“And how long have you been here?”

“Two weeks.”

Harry was sold.  He bought the thing, put it in the side pocket of his traveling duffle, and then promptly forgot about it.  He had been promised a Yeti.  Some things were just more pressing.

He only remembered it when he opened the duffle to start packing for the location he’d been planning to visit.  Which turned out to be an old cabin rather colorfully called the Shrieking Shack.  Not only was the pendant in there but also a pair of underwear, a floorplan of the Legion of Honor, and one chopstick.  He could not remember for the life of him where he’d obtained the chopstick.  

Agreeing to go to the beach on Thursday with a man who had quite clearly rebuffed you was a trial.  Compounded by Malfoy wearing a speedo - _I mean, weren’t yoga pants bad enough?_ \- and Harry unable to unstick his tongue whenever Malfoy asked him something and not appear to be the asshole who couldn’t rise over rejection.

Although his teeth had been gritted, Harry had powered through.  He was nothing if not a trooper.  Even if he couldn’t understand why Malfoy would have suggested the beach.  He had brought some sort of a beach tent and when he wasn’t slathered in sunblock or swimming he was under the tent.

Harry had joined a beach volleyball game that needed extra players and was finally able to get to a transcendent place diving for the ball and spiking the opposition.  Albie would be proud.

When he’d returned to Headquarters - Malfoy was not amused by the naming of his tent - Malfoy challenged Harry to a swim.  “Just to that rock and back.”  It never dawned on Harry that Malfoy knew him well enough to know what buttons to press to get his attention.

“Alright.”  Harry was dressed less scandalously in his brown swim trunks.  

They were evenly matched all told.  Malfoy was the better swimmer and his height gave him the advantage.  Harry was not as graceful.  He battled the water with brute force after Malfoy, who broke the water like a fish.  

About 100 yards from shore, Harry hit a very smooth patch of water and was suddenly pulled under.  It happened so fast he barely had time to realize it was happening.  He could feel himself being dragged away from shore and couldn’t catch his breath.  In second grade, a student in his class had drowned.  Perfectly calm lake, dragged out by a rip tide that he couldn’t get out of.  Rom had put him in swimming safety courses the next day.  But that had been a long time ago.

In the dark water, Malfoy was a beacon.  But an increasingly distant one.

He forced his way to the surface only to be pulled back again, this time pushing him further away from shore.   _Hrm_ , Harry remembered thinking before two arms slipped under this armpits and hauled him above the water.  He took a huge burst of breath, coughing out the water he’d inhaled.  “Stop fighting Potter.  And float.”

With a patience - and strength - Harry didn’t know Malfoy had, he brought them parallel to shore until they were out of the rip tide.  “Are you able to swim back to shore?”  Malfoy’s eyes were very dark, a hard grey and water beaded on his cheeks and lips.  Harry was out of breath and tired.  But he nodded.

Through hook and by crook they made it back to shore.  Malfoy dragging Harry the last quarter of the way until they collapsed on the beach.  Not unsurprisingly, no one on shore had noticed that Harry had nearly died.

“Malfoy,” Harry managed breathlessly.  “That had to have been...without a doubt… the worst idea… you’ve ever had.”

Malfoy, who wasn’t even slightly winded (which Harry found amazing), came up on his left forearm and looked down at Harry.  “Oh, I’ve had worse.”  And then his cold lips were on Harry’s.  His tongue was warm, a strange juxtaposition that was both arousing and weird.  Harry’s thoughts were eloquent that way.  

Harry was completely exhausted, but called upon his last reserve to lift his hands to Malfoy’s cheeks.  They were gritty with sand.  Harry didn’t even think to close his eyes.  Although Malfoy had and his lashes were a bright crescent against his cheeks.  He wanted to move his hands to other places - the small of Malfoy’s back, the tight curve of his ass - but literally did not have the strength.  Also, as reason began to kick in, it was quite possible that two men making out on a family beach would probably be cause for some sort of an intervention.

“Malfoy,” Harry said dragging his mouth away from Malfoy’s.  Malfoy pulled back looking slightly dazed.  He was sure it reflected his own face.  “We can’t do this, remember?”  But inside Harry’s brain was yelling _what are you doing, Potter?_

“You almost died.”  Malfoy said, as if the thought had just hit him.  

And something in Harry popped.  Revelations came to him that way.  Just sort of out of the blue.  Not only could he go on kissing Malfoy forever.  But he _really_ liked Malfoy.  

So before he did anything irrevocably stupid - like tell his Department Director that he was falling in love with him - Harry did what he always did to deflect.  “You’re going to have to try harder than that, Malfoy.  I don’t know if you know this, but in some parts of the world I’m known as the Boy-Who-Lived.”  

Harry punctuated it with an eyebrow waggle.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is sauce of an adult nature during Harry's portion of this chapter (following Draco's). Please skip after the heart if this is not your cup of tea.

**Seven**

Draco was on Potter’s doorstep ten seconds after he’d seen the Time-Turner.

He was in his pajamas - he _had_ been in a hurry - with his wand in a vanishing holster (should the need arise) against his leg.  The sprinklers were on next door and someone was playing a guitar across the street.  Cattycorner to Potter’s house on Privet Drive, some sort of a sports match was being celebrated with beers and shouting.

 _How are we going to play this, Draco?_  “I was wondering if I could borrow a cup of tea?  Isn’t that the trope?”   _Who asks for a cup of sugar these days?_  Draco didn’t even known his neighbors and assumed that only the help would know where to find it.  “May I use your phone?”   _Did Potter have a landline?  Why wouldn’t he have his mobile on him?_  

Potter opened the door just as Draco was saying, “My car broke down and I was wondering…?”

“Malfoy?”  Potter was genuinely surprised.  “How long have you been standing out here?  I just got a call from Miss Figg that someone was standing on my porch.  She was going to call the cops.”

“My Lord.  I’ve only been here for about a minute.”

“The telephones never get a chance to cool down around here.  Most of my neighbors are retirees.”   _Or spies._  Draco had no idea what a retiree was capable of.

“Well,” Draco said, trying to take control of the situation once again.  “My car broke down and I was wondering if I could call for a tow.  I forgot my phone.”

“Do you habitually drive around at night in your pajamas?”  Draco narrowed his eyes.  “I’m asking for science.”  Potter looked him over from head to toe and Draco felt every inch of it.  “You should come in, though.  It’s too cold out there for silk pajama bottoms.”

It wasn’t.  But Draco took the offer.

Potter himself was in a worn pair of jeans and an old grey t-shirt.  The faded black lettering read: _I’m a Seeker_.  There were no holes at the neck this time.  Clearly he was in his Sunday best.  The sitting room was pretty much as it looked from the mirror.  A red and orange checked sofa and matching loveseat.  A three shelf bookcase near the fireplace, two floor lamps with flower etched frosted glass, and a television on a stand.  It was fussier than he would have assumed Potter would decorate his sanctum sanctorum.  “Nice...place.”

Potter gave him a crooked smile, closing the door behind them.  “The furniture was all here when I moved in.  It was Tuney’s - er, Petunia’s - Sister-in-Law’s house.  Marge moved to Majorca of all places and I rented it lock stock and barrell when I started at Durmstrang.  Minus the dog hair.  Do you want a cup of tea and the phone?”  Instead of handing him his mobile, Potter showed Draco to an honest to Merlin wall phone.  It was a rotary.

“Yes.  Yes of course.”  While Draco pretended to call for a towing service on the assumption that Potter would never check his phone records, Potter set about making tea.  His kitchen would rival Chernobyl.  The underlying kitchen was 1970s chic in avocado green.  And somehow Potter had exploded on it.  It was chaos.  There were takeaway containers in his trash.   _Which had no lid_.  And if the crime scene of his stove told it’s tale he had at one point graced the burner with tomato sauce.  His cabinet when he opened it had at least fourteen boxes of herbal tisanes (where were emphatically not tea) and somewhere in the very back he found a couple of Lipton tea bags who had clearly been under witness relocation in a raisin tin.

“I don’t have any Earl Grey.  Can you drink this?”  Potter shook on of the wilting tea bags at Draco who merely nodded.   _Have I a choice?_

“It’s going to take a while.  Do you mind terribly if I wait here until they call back?”  Potter did not seem to notice that Draco had not asked for his phone number.  Nor provided it to the tow company.

“Sure.  Make yourself at home.  Why don’t you have a seat in the front room?  You can just throw my duffle on the floor.”

Narcissa Malfoy - Draco often used her as an arbiter of hospitality - would have been horrified to be told she would have to remove a bag from the seat prior to sitting on it (let alone the state of his kitchen).  If he didn’t have a Time-Turner to confiscate, Draco would have made himself at home by rolling up his shirt sleeves (if he wasn’t in short sleeves) and scouring the place within an inch of it’s life.  Instead, he threw Potter’s duffle on the floor before he sat on the not uncomfortable couch.

But not before confiscating the Time-Turner.  He cast a quick _Gemino_ before placing the fake on top of Harry’s duffle.  

It was a classic Time-Turner.  This one had two concentric brass circles that radiated from a small glass capsule with the sands of time housed within.  How it ended up in Potter’s hands was anyone’s guess.  Malfoy had read about them but had never seen one in real life.  And now he had one in his hands.  Was it a real Time-Turner?  Did it work?  As per his training, they all had their particular quirks.  He cast a non-verbal apericium and saw the stamp: _Property of the Ministry of Magic._

“I’m sorry about the mess,” Potter was saying from the kitchen, the kettle coming to a whistling boil, “But I was just packing for a small trip I was planning for next weekend.  Ordinarily, it’s much tidier.” Draco knew this was not true.  There were minute and hour notches on the device.  He knew that revolving the circles would play with time.

“I’ll survive,” Draco drawled.  

“To tell the truth, I’m glad your car broke down.”  Time-Turner momentarily forgotten, Draco perked up.  Was Potter going to address the beach incident?  He had been unfailing polite but professional since the incident and it was grating on Draco’s last nerve.  Even though he was doing the same.

“Oh?”

There was a knock on the door.  “The tow company?”

“I don’t… think so.”  If it was a towing company it was going to either be Ministry or MACUSA.

“I’ll be right back.  And then I have something to tell you.  I was going to wait until Monday to tell you, but why not now?”

“Let me guess.  Ectoplasmic effluvia?  A poltergeist?”  Draco heard Harry snort and then open the door.  A minute or so later he was back.

“Hrm.  No one was there.”

“Stalker?”

“No Ford Anglias tonight, so I think I’m alright.  So as I was saying,” Potter said very slowly walking out of the kitchen with milk, sugar, and two teaspoons.  Draco would have bet money that a bag of sugar would make it’s way into Potter’s tea.  “So you know how Macron has been sending out incentives for scientists?”  Draco’s head spun trying to find the file with the name.  Muggle President.  France.  He nodded, although he knew no such thing.  “Well, I was offered a job at Beauxbatons.  In the Pyrenees.”

“You can’t leave me!”  It was out of Draco’s mouth before he could check himself.  Quite despite himself he was completely furious.  He was the one who was martyring himself on the altar of self-sacrifice! How like Potter to try to fix things.

“Don’t you think my research is bullshit?”

“I do!  But I forbid you to leave.”

“I think you’ve made it very clear Draco that whatever this is,” Potter moved his hand back and forth between them, “Is something you don’t want to entertain.  I thought I would make it easier for you by taking myself out of the equation.”  

“I--I--”  Draco didn’t know what he was.

“I’ve never felt this way about anyone in my life.  And I can’t look at you without _doing_ something.  I’m a _doing something_ person.  I _can’t_ sit on my hands.”  Potter stared at Draco as if he were trying to read his mind.  Draco, who was able to do so as Potter was projecting like crazy, caught the thoughts before he said them.  “I think you need to figure it out for yourself.”

“Harry, I ….love ….you.”

“Oh my God, the tea,” Harry said.  His smile could have melted the sun.  

“Are you seriously going to get tea after I just said what I said?”  Draco was not impressed with the keening sound to his voice.  Nor was he impressed with Harry’s lack of focus.

“Hold that thought!”

Draco sighed.  Harry literally ran back, tripped over an umbrella stand that looked like a troll foot, and then caught himself before he spilled tea everywhere.   “I love you, too.”  

 _I know_.

And then Harry was standing over him.

 

♥

 

Harry wasn’t sure what he was doing, but the moment his lips touched Draco’s all rational thought had been deleted from the equation anyway.  It had always been like this.  Harry gave everything.  He was incapable of holding back.

Three years of bottled lust was a heady thing.  It had grown incrementally in the hothouse of his body invisible and tentative. But all flowers in time reach for the sun.  

“Is this okay?”  Harry asked between breaths taken when he was able to pull away from the reddening skin of Draco’s mouth.   _This was red_.  The color of Draco’s lips after Harry had taken them.

Draco was taking off Harry’s shirt.  “Don’t stop, asshole.”

And then Draco’s tongue was in his mouth.  He threw the t-shirt and Harry heard one of the teacups fall on the table and the run of hot tea on the carpet.   _I’ll take care of that later._  With Draco’s fingers in the course down of his chest, Harry groaned.  Draco made a small sound in the back of his throat in response.  And then Harry did something that would go down in the annals of his sexual resume.  Even if he _hoped_ he would only need one interview.

He took Draco’s pajama bottoms off with his teeth.   _And_ his underwear.

“Holy fuck,” Draco said on what breath he was able to muster.  He did offer the assist by lifting his hips.

Harry, who had never done such a thing in his life, was fairly impressed with himself.  All of which took a backseat to the gold fur of Draco’s torso tapering down to the crease Draco’s speedo had only eluded to.  Below that, dark gold curls presented his cock to Harry.  It jumped under Harry’s consideration.  

He would have liked to have taken his time with Draco.  He really would have.  But five years of abstinence and the joy of reciprocation pulled him like the tide.  He swallowed Draco and did not relent under the stutter of breath and words above him.  If he had had any doubts as to Draco being British they were settled under the force of Harry’s tongue.

He did not stop while Draco’s fingers worked their way among his curls and urged him on.  He did not stop when Draco pushed up into him.  He did not stop until Draco pulsed salty against his tongue on an _Ahhhhhhh_ that Harry thought he would think about for a very long time.

On the red and orange couch that Harry thought were a dark grey and lighter grey, with the front window completely open and the lights on, through the judicious application of lube that Harry had fortunately stowed in the coffee table after some, er, extracurricular activities of his own, and with the pleading guidance of Draco, Harry fucked his Department Head into the couch.  He hadn’t even quite removed his jeans.  

He would not have taken Draco as a screamer.  

It was so unbelievably hot that Harry didn’t last very long.  When he was more coherent, which took longer as he edged towards middle age, he vowed to study Draco’s body in protracted detail.  For science, of course.  But later.

Someone knocked on the door again.  Harry tried to ignore it, particularly moved by the exasperated look on Draco’s face.  But it persisted.  “I will literally be right back.  It’s probably nothing.”  Harry zipped his jeans before getting up.

“I’m going to just lay here naked while you go off and do something more important than me laying here naked.”  Harry loved Draco’s sardonic rejoinders.  He was adorable when he was picayune.

“Umbridge?”  The owner of the name stood on his doorstep in her quilted robe and curlers.  She had a pair of binoculars around her neck.

“I couldn’t help but hear screaming from your home, Harry.”  She was trying to look around him, but Harry was too burly for her to see anything without coming into the house.  He’d be damned if he let her in.  

“Oh, I dropped the tea kettle on my foot,” Harry said.  

“You know I used to be a nurse,” he did as she had mentioned it about a thousand times, “I would be more than happy to look at the injury.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I think I’m alright now.”  

“It would be no bother.”

“I appreciate your offer, but I really am alright.  I need to clean up the spill.  Have a good night.”

When he was back he immediately closed the curtains.  “I’m fairly certain she only heard the screaming - which was incredibly hot by the way - while standing in her backyard peering into the window.”

“You’re so loved, Harry.”

“Yes.”  Harry smiled down at Draco.  “Let me just get you a wash cloth.  I think it’s in your best interest to just stay here tonight.  Who knows what those harridans will get up to.”  He walked into the hallway looking back once at the boneless and lithe body of Draco Malfoy.  He had left one leg propped on the sofa and the other dropped to the ground.  It was a _very_ lovely view.  Draco’s pajamas and underwear had ended up on the ground.  His right thigh had a circular impression of something the circumference of a garter Harry had not come across.

Harry had his head in the linen closet when he heard the sound of the tea cup falling to the ground.  And the clink of something metal followed by Draco’s _fuck_.

 

*

 

“To tell the truth, I’m glad your car broke down.”  Harry was trying his hardest to make his voice as even as possible.  He carefully poured out water into the two mugs.  He hadn’t put quite enough in and stiffed himself in order to make sure Malfoy’s was full enough.

“Oh?”  Draco sounded a little distracted and Harry assumed it had to do with his car.  It was such a strange coincidence that Malfoy had broken down so near his house.  Lucky for Malfoy anyway.  Many lashes would have been batted over his wearing pajamas.

There was a knock on the door.  “The tow company?”

“I don’t… think so.”  Malfoy sounded surprised and Harry was pretty certain that it took longer than a few minutes for someone to come out.

“I’ll be right back.  And then I have something to tell you.  I was going to wait until Monday to tell you, but why not now?”

“Let me guess.  Ectoplasmic effluvia?  A poltergeist?”  

Harry opened the door, completely ignoring Malfoy’s mockery, and no one was there.  The evening was still and Miss Umbridge, the neighbor on his left, was standing on her lawn.  With binoculars.  He waved at her as she waved at him.  He could tell she wanted to ask him about his visitor, so he closed the door before she could come over.

“Anyway.”

“I think I should get going,” Malfoy said.  Harry hadn’t even given him his tea yet.  

“But the tow company hasn’t even showed up yet.”

“I appreciate your hospitality, but I really need to go.”  Malfoy was half out the door before Harry called him back.

“At least take a coat, okay?”  

Draco grudgingly took Harry’s leather jacket.  It was too large for him but it did something to Harry’s stomach to see him in it.  “I’ll see you Monday, Potter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this tale, please feel free to drop kudos :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Eight**

 

Draco didn’t think it was possible for Potter to get any more _civil_ with him that he already was.  But he was wrong.

He knew Potter was trying to do right by Draco.  That he was trying to give them distance.  He was so bloody noble.  Meanwhile, Draco, who was doing the first act of nobility he could remember, completely hated it.  He even had the mad thought of abandoning the wizarding world and going into private practice.  Somehow in that thought Potter had professed his undying love for him.

He’d logged the Time-Turner - in a long list with all the other paraphernalia currently and formerly in Potter’s possession - and then Floo called Augusta Longbottom at the Ministry.  She had been the Minister of Magic’s de facto bodyguard and secretary for the past fifty years.  She had worked with nine ministers, some more progressive than others. She showed no signs of slowing down.

“And what did _our_ Mr Potter have now?”  Augusta had seen everything in her lifetime.  And she very much enjoyed hearing the exploits of Harry Potter.   _Serves them right_ , she had once said to Daedalus Diggle who clerked for Ludo Bagman and lunched with her everyday, _To see a Muggle get the upper hand_.  Draco didn’t think she had the slightest concept of secrecy.  Legal or not.

“Time-Turner.  6mm.  Brass.”

“You don’t say?”  He passed it through the fire and she collected it in a piece of parchment that instantly sealed itself and signed her name and added the datestamp.  “That man should work for the Ministry.  He’d be a lot better than Crouch _Junior_.”  He was, not surprisingly, the son of Barty Crouch Sr who had been the previous Prime Minister.  Quite a large contingent in the Ministry were certain that his position as Head Auror was only due to his father’s influence.  

Augusta foremost among them.  

She had had to fight her way through a Ministry Old Boy’s Club in the ‘50s and liked to say that she had mopped up the Spits.  “Your paperwork crossed my desk, Malfoy.”

“Uh, yes.  I’ve requested a transfer.”

“You could do a lot worse than Potter.”

Draco coughed.  “I’ve been on this assignment for nearly five years.  I thought it was time to do something else.”

“Don’t try to cheek me, lad.  Are you Narcissa Black’s son or what?  You know what I meant.  Give the man a proper shag and bring him Home.  He can Muggle from anywhere.”  Augusta used her pointer finger to push up the hard plastic of her enormous glasses.  “Wizards these days…”

She disconnected the Floo call and Draco was so agitated that he cast _tergeo_ twice.

He apparated to Malfoy Manor on Monday evening and surprised an ‘at-home’ Narcissa who still had her hair up in curlers reading _Witch Weekly_.  Bellatrix was snoring on her lap.  When Kreacher announced him, she flew to her feet.  “For Merlin's’ sake, Draco, you can’t see me like this.”  With a flick of her wand her curlers were gone and her hair was perfectly set.  “You have to give an old woman some notice.  It takes a long time to put the bloom back on once it’s fallen from the tree.”

“Mother, you are an ageless beauty.”

“And you are a shameless liar,” she rose up to kiss his cheek.  “But I love you anyway.  To what do I owe the honor of your visit?  I can have Kreacher rustle up some of your favorite chocolate biscuits.”  Kreacher appeared as she mentioned it.  “Master Draco would like some of those chocolate biscuits you make.  Oh, and some tea.”  The house elf popped off to serve.  “You look so nervous.  What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”  Draco smiled at his mother.  But she was the one person in the world who could read his every subtlety.  

“Did someone hurt you?  Despite being from the Honorable House of Black and the current Lady Malfoy I’m not above hexing them.  I was quite a dueller in school.  I took Nationals in ‘73.”

Draco really smiled at her.  She was inordinately proud of her medal.  It was hanging in the Hall.  The neighboring portrait of Septimus Malfoy had once suggested her effort was unbecoming of a witch.   _No wife of mine…_ She had had his portrait removed to the third loo.

“No, no one’s hurt me.  I just have something I need to tell you.”

“Are you dying?  Draco please tell me you are not dying!”  Narcissa’s voice had gone high and quivered.  “You know we had no warning with your father.”

“Mother,” Draco took one of her small white hands.  “Please sit down.  Kreacher!”  And the house elf was there with water and Narcissa’s revivifying cordial.  When she was calmer, Draco sat across from her, still holding her hand.  “Mother, I’m in love with a man.”

“Is that all?  And here I thought you had dragon pox!”  She had finished her cordial at this point and had moved onto tea.  She prepared Draco’s cup just as he liked it.

“Is that _all_?  That’s what you’re going to say about it?”  Draco went to run his hand through his hair and then remembered his manners and didn’t.

“Well,” Narcissa reasoned over her cup of tea, “What happens in your boudoir is really your own business, Draco.  Merlin’s beard that things I got up to as a girl.”  Narcissa coughed, “None of which is pertinent to this conversation of course.”

“You’re brilliant you know.”  

“A diamond of the first water.”

“He’s a Muggle.”  He watched her face.  “And an American.”

“Now Draco that is just too much.”  Draco didn’t flinch as she took in his face.  “You’re telling the truth, aren’t you?”  She took a deep breath.  “Your Grandfather is going to disown you.”

“Probably.”

After a pregnant moment, she said, “I never really cared for the man myself.”  And then the two of them were laughing.  

“I never really cared to be the Malfoy scion anyway.”

“Oh Draco," Narcissa put her hand on his cheek.  "The lands are entailed and your father made sure the House was yours in his will.  It will all just be a large show to his friends at the Club.  He’ll probably give his money to some Anti-Muggle organization and threaten you with his patronus.  The usual sort of thing.”

After some time, Narcissa asked rather seriously, “He does like dogs doesn’t he?”

 

♥

 

“I just feel like I’m missing an hour of my life.”  Harry explained under the tarp that was currently serving as a makeshift roof.  Hermione’s event would have been a complete washout if it weren’t for the fact that eight year olds don’t really care about the rain.  Jumping in rain puddles far exceeding the reason for the event.  Free dental check-ups and sugar free snacks  As Hermione was a dentist when not actively counsil _ing_ , it was a cause near and dear to her heart.  Hermione was from Cokeworth, had grown up in the very segregated Spinner’s End in fact, and had come back to help her community.  Sometimes that included forcing Harry and now Ron into helping her unload hundreds of boxes of sugar free puddings and bottles of water.  Her father, Wendell, was monitoring the registration booth and sticker distribution.  Her mother, Monica, was in the truck that was currently housing the three dentists.

“Do you suppose it was an alien abduction?”  It was a measure of their long friendship that Hermione asked the question so easily.  “I mean, let’s face it Harry.  Weird shit goes down around you on a fairly routine basis.  If there was, God forbid, a lightning strike right now dollars to donuts it would hit you.”

Harry, who had not yet gotten his jacket back, tried to stay away from the edge of the tent.  

Ron, who had procured three styrofoam containers of sugar free hot chocolate (and was only taking very tiny, intermittent sips), listened intently.  He was also trying to stay out of direct line of sight of Mr Granger.  He had not yet been introduced to Hermione’s parents as her increasingly significant other.  But he had voiced the suspicion earlier that he thought that Mr Granger was trying to get him alone.   _He wanted me to count the stickers, Harry.  In his tent.  Alone._

“I don’t think there was alien involvement.  There were no post-abduction radiation burns.  And I didn’t find any strange marks when I checked.”

“Have you had any dreams about owls?”  Ron asked unexpectedly.

“Not that I remember.”  There was no way in hell Harry was going to tell Hermione - let alone Ron - the incredibly hot dreams he had been having about Malfoy.  

“I read in the paper that dreams of owls were a sign of alien abduction.”  Hermione gave Ron an indulgent smile.  Harry knew for a fact that Ron had spent a week combing through every single local newspaper to find any mention of Hermione.  He probably knew more about zoning laws than Hermione did at this point.

Harry seemed to consider this seriously.  “This is ridiculous.  Malfoy was there and he didn’t seem to notice anything.”

“Wait.”  Hermione put her hand up and Harry was certain she had just seen some tomfoolery that she needed to sort out.  Oh, but she was sorting out another type of tomfoolery altogether.  “Harold Potter.  Why was Malfoy at your house?”

“It’s just Harry, Hermione,” she gave him the sorting tomfoolery look again.  “Yes, Malfoy was at my house.  His car had broken down and he needed to call for a tow.”

“Did you sleep with him?”  Ron spit out the mouthful of hot chocolate he had in his mouth.

“Hermione, you can’t just ask someone something like that.”

“Of course I can.  I’ve known _just_ Harry since I was eleven years old.  I know Stubby and Rom and I know that there was no way Draco Malfoy kept his clothes on while visiting.”  Hermione had a very knowing smile on her face.  “Did you put a little sugar in his bowl?”

Harry was redder than he could remember. “I did not.”

“But you lost an hour of your life?”  She seemed to be working towards something profound.  But Ron beat her there.

“You don’t think that Malfoy - “ he had to pause because apparently the idea of Malfoy naked probably grossed him out, “Ehm, slipped you a roofie?”  Both Hermione and Harry looked at Ron in disbelief.  "It _could_ happen."

"I am never drinking anything you give me, Ronald Weasley."

Harry was going to have a coronary.  “I said I _feel_ like I lost an hour.  I didn’t actually lose an hour.  And where was he going to hide a roofie in his pajamas?  He didn’t even have a pocket for his cell phone.”

Hermione laughed.  She laughed so hard that she had to wipe tears from her eyes.  “Honey, I love you to death.  I do.  But only you would not know what to do when the literal light of your life showed up in the middle of the night in pajamas.”

Ron had to agree with that.  And then excused himself to the port-o-potty as Mr Granger came over.

 

*

 

Two days later, Harry hit Malfoy with a bottle of holy water in the forehead so hard that he dropped him.

It was a complete accident.

Harry had been working on the sleeve mechanism for some time, modifying blueprints he found on an internet group he belonged to that had taken to the deep web.  They bought and sold things in bitcoin only.  It had been mentioned by Eldred Worple as a device he used while on a tour to Minsk with his wife, Mildred.   _Took the vampire right down.  And they gave me the borscht on the house_.

The sliding mechanism had been sticking and through the judicious (overuse) of WD-40, Harry was certain that he had it somewhat solved.  What he had not expected was Malfoy to walk into his office the moment he had tested it.  It worked.  But too well.  The arm disengaged and flew across the room.  Directly into Malfoy’s forehead.

With an _Oh_ he dropped to the linoleum floor.  It would have been carpeting, but Malfoy had denied their request for years.

“Oh my God, Draco,” And Harry was on his knees.  Malfoy was breathing and alert although slightly dazed.

“You know,” Malfoy started, splayed out on Harry’s floor, “The whole concept of being knocked off one’s feet is highly overrated.”

Harry wasn’t entirely sure what to do.  He really wanted to laugh.  But he wasn’t entirely certain that Malfoy wouldn’t kill him.

“I came in here to feed you a line about my house being haunted.  Incidentally, my estate is,” Malfoy continued to muse aloud.  “In order to lure you into my boudoir for reasons that cannot be classified as particularly wholesome.  But Harry,” he peered over at Harry, whose mouth was gaping, “You have now not only figuratively but also quite literally knocked me off my feet.”

“I’m really sorry, Draco.”  Harry thought using his first name was appropriate considering the situation.  “I don’t think my finer qualities really show themselves when you’re around.”

“If you would be so kind as to assist me home, I would like to interview these finer qualities.  For science, of course.”  Draco was tensile beneath Harry’s arms.  “Provided I don’t have a concussion.”

Harry once again drove Draco home via the Audi.  It was running quite well and he assumed the auto shop had done their magic.  While Draco lay on a couch that looked like it had never been used before, Harry went into his bathroom cupboard for aspirin.  He couldn’t find any, but he did find a very fancy glass phial of what at first looked like perfume.  But the label said: _Pomfrey’s Cure-All_.  Only Draco would have an upscale container of liquid pain reliever.  Harry felt the toilet paper to see if it was silk.

Draco was only moderately alarmed by Harry returning with the bottle.  He assumed that he was saving it for a special occasion.  Maybe it aged like Draco’s port?  Draco downed it while Harry set about making tea for them.  He had not noticed last time that Draco’s teas were all loose leaf.  He had the devil of a time finding some sort of a tea ball and ended up using his spaghetti strainer.  He used the spoon to fish out the leaves that had escaped, quite pleased with himself.

Draco seemed to recover almost instantly.  It had looked like a fairly solid hit and Harry was glad it hadn’t been as serious a hit as he’d initially assumed.  “So before you say anything, I have to tell you something.”  Draco gave him the _if you must_ look that Harry was used to from staff meetings.  “You’ve done just about everything you can to show me that this,” he motioned between Draco and himself, “Was something you didn’t want to happen.  I mean, you’re going to Cambridge.  What do you want from me?”


	9. Chapter 9

**Nine**

 

“What do you want from me?”

“Well, at the expense of possibly sounding presumptuous I thought I would in order,” Draco started to count off on his right hand, “Seduce you.  Bring you to my haunted manor.  Introduce you to the most important woman in my life.  And eventually… other things.”  Draco watched Harry’s face closely.  He had no idea how he was going to react.  But maybe he did?  Only the fact that he _he_ loved Harry made him hold firm.

“Only you would make seduction sound like a gothic horror novel.”  Harry gave him a very Harry look.  Crinkle-eyed and an exasperated amusement that Draco thought might only ever be directed at him.  They would have to discuss this lack of taking dangerous things seriously at a later point.  Including Draco.  Potter had an irritating way of underestimating him.

Draco reached over and grabbed the end of Potter’s stupid lightning bolt tie.  He wrapped the end of it around his fist and pulled Potter down towards him.  “Potter.  Be a good boy and take off your trousers.”  

Potter gave a small _Oh_ before his large hands fumbled with his belt buckle and then the flies of his trousers.  The clink of the belt in that moment was the single most erotic thing Draco had ever experienced in his life.  With his trousers and pants down - Draco rewarded him with a _So Precocious, Potter_ \- Draco was in no hurry when he took Potter in his mouth.  Still clutching Potter by his tie, he tongued and sucked and touched until Potter gasped out a hoarse _Draco_ before spilling his seed in Draco’s mouth.  

After he led them to his bedroom - by the tie - he made Potter take Draco’s trousers and pants off with his teeth (having thoughtfully vanished his wand to the dresser).  He had a _feeling_ that Potter would be capable.

He did offer the assist by lifting his legs.

If he used a lubrication spell or two to open him, Potter would never know.  Draco was good at silent spells.  But he did want Potter to remember that he was the first man in five years to take him.  And the only one who mattered.  So he did it with a thoroughness that behooved a Malfoy, swallowing Potter’s cries and gasps before they ever left his mouth.  And when he came at last after what felt like hours of controlled, consistent building, Draco did lose his head a little. 

“ _Merlin’s beard, Harry_ …”

“I must be good,” Harry said against Draco’s thigh sometime later.  After he’d had his mouth on Draco - so probably in the small hours of the night - and was shaking.  “To have _you_ of all people spouting mythology.”

“Oh shut up, you asshole.”

Harry did not leave Draco’s house for three days.

 

*

Draco looked long and hard at the foil-covered hardhat that Harry had just handed him.  “You’re serious?”  He looked down at the hat and then back at Harry.  Of course he was serious.  “I am not putting this on.”  Harry was wearing one.  But his had a strap under the chin.  He looked like some sort of a B-movie infantry soldier.  It was strangely adorable.

Draco tried to quash that thought.  He was likely to be trampled by a bull shortly.

There was no doubt that he was in love with an idiot.

“I just want to say that you’re taking your life in your hands.  I can’t be held responsible for any sort of neurological issues you may suffer after this.”

“I want to mention that a wine tasting was a reasonable field work activity.  Going to a museum, even a pub quiz were suitable.  Going out in the middle of nowhere - where I had to drive, may I add - in the middle of the night is not a reasonable activity.”  Not only had he had to drive, but he was carrying at least two duffel bags of Harry’s “important gear.”  If he had a monkey’s paw in there, Draco would not be surprised.  And the GPS had no idea where they were.

“Are you done?”

“I am not wearing the hat.”

“Fine.  But you’re carrying the EMF.”

“I’m afraid to ask.  But what is an EMF?”

“It’s a device that allows us - yes us, don’t roll your eyes Draco - to detect changes in electromagnetic fields.”

“Which have nothing to do with things like, oh I don’t know, electricity?”

“I know for a fact that the Shrieking Shack has never been connected to the electrical grid.  I checked it out with the County before I even agreed to do this.”  Despite himself, Draco was impressed that Potter had researched.  “Hermione helped.  She’s amazing with zoning laws.”

“And I’m to assume that the ‘shrieking’ is what alerted locals to their demonic plight?”

“Among other things.  There have also been a lot of pet disappearances.  A horse was even found half eaten about a month ago.”

“That’s pleasant.”  Draco was disgusted.  “Can I ask you a question?  A serious question.”

“Of course,” Harry didn’t seem surprised he was asking.  Harry didn’t seem to care what Draco asked him.  He liked when Draco asked him questions.  Because he liked sharing himself, completely freely and without qualms of any sort.  He honestly believed that he had nothing to hide.  And Draco was starting to believe him.

“Why don’t you do normal parapsychology research?  Investigating ESP and working on governmental astral projection projects?”

“If you read my body of research, Draco, before calling it bullshit you would realize that I do.  No one funds this sort of thing.  But I also investigate paranormal activity for people who are genuinely in some sort of distress.  It’s sort of a thing I do.”

“Like being a cleric.”

“I do not have a savior complex.”

“So you say.”  Draco fingered the foil hat and then… he put it on.  “Alright.  So what is the plan _Moony_?  Are we just busting into this graveyard in the middle night on the intelligence of a random barkeep?”  Wormtail had suffered a fate similar to Prongs and Harry was now playing the last of the triplets, Moony.  He had decided to leave his dog out of it.

Harry smiled so broadly that the car momentarily lit up.  Or that might have just been Draco’s brain exploding.  Lot of good the helmet did.  “I was thinking that we’d bring a camcorder and the EMF reader up to the Shack.  As sort of a preliminary sort of thing.  I was up there last weekend and it seemed relatively safe.  There’s no serious structural damage, no water damage.  Just signs that it’s been used by kids or something.  They did a number on the place.”

“Can I suggest something?”

“Sure.”

“Can we not just go busting in there?  Just in case there is someone or _someones_ in there.  It could be a methamphetamine lab or something.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Draco realized he was not quite dressed appropriately when they had to walk what felt like four miles through high grass and some swampy ground to get to the shack.  At least the full moon made the torches unnecessary.  Harry, of course, had his Maglite. “You didn’t tell me we were going to have to walk so far.”

“I told you to wear something you didn’t mind getting dirty.”  Draco had interpreted this as a pair of faded khakis, a polo that was fraying at the hem, and his worse pair of oxfords.  Which were scuffed at the toe.  And now a tin-foil hat.  He fervently prayed that no one would ever know about this.

But he was also relishing his time with Harry.

As they neared the shack, Draco felt all the hairs on the back of his neck rise.  It was unnerving to say the least.  He looked over at Harry, who seemed to be completely unfazed as he was narrating into his camcorder.  “Do you feel that?”

“Yes,” Harry said, coming closer to Draco.  “It’s usually a sign that there is something supernatural happening somewhere.”  He put his hand on Draco’s bare forearm.  “Just be careful, alright.  I don’t want to have to explain how the Head of the Psych Department was injured in a field in the middle of the night to the Dean.”  Harry then smiled his stupid, adorable lopsided grin.  

“You, too.”  Draco continued to hold the EMF reader, but also had his right hand against the right thigh of his khakis.  Where he kept his wand.

They observed for what felt like hours.  And then the howl rent the air.  It was not a shriek.  It was definitely a howl.  It sounded like some sort of a large animal.  “I have a feeling,” Harry said with a very determined look in his eye.  

“A feeling that we’re going to die out here?”

“It’s like a being on a roller coaster.  Like bones vibrating.  I’ve always had it before things get exciting.”  Draco looked at Harry Potter.  Really looked at him.  What he was describing sounded like magic.  The sort of magic that underage wizards and witches felt until they learned to control it.

“Harry I… think we should head back to the car.”  Harry turned towards Draco, who was deadly serious.  

With a crunch of planks and plaster, something actually came out of the shack.  

It was a motherfucking werewolf.

“Merlin’s beard, we have to go.  Now!”  Draco grabbed Potter’s hand and pulled him.  It was a good thing that Harry obliged him because he was a lot heavier than Draco.

 

♥

 

At some point while they were running, Draco pulling him as fast as he could, Harry realized that Draco had no idea where they were going.  Harry had unusually good directional sense - it had saved his life many times - and knew they were headed the wrong way.  “Draco, we’re headed the wrong way.  We have to go to the Northeast.”

“No… no…” Harry had the sense that Draco had tipped over a line someway back.  He was terrified and the skin under his fingers was goose flesh.

“Draco, stop!”  

And miracles upon miracles, he did.  “Please take a deep breath.  Please.  You have to get ahold of yourself.”  Harry had his hands on the side of his face, the camcorder dropped someway back, and rubbed his calloused thumb against the fine skin there.  “I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.”  Draco’s blue eyes were flinty grey, the pupils blown.  So Harry did the first thing that came to mind.

He kissed him.  

For a short time, they were two grown men in tin-foil hats in the middle of a field somewhere kissing.

Harry didn’t have time to reflect on the fact that perhaps it was not the right place for kissing.  Only that Malfoy’s lips were as sweet as last time and that Draco _did_ calm down.  But that might have been due to shock.  And then Draco came to himself.  “Are you serious, Harry?  Why do Americans always try to snog each other when they’re about to die?”  At this point Draco tore off his hat.

“Because they’re… about… to... die?”

“I just…” And Draco kissed him back.  It was a harried but possessive kiss.  

Thankfully, Harry heard the werewolf over the warm sensation of kissing Draco Malfoy.  Harry, who had seen werewolves before and was fairly confident in saying Draco hadn’t, thought he had this pretty well in hand.  He had quite a few tricks up his sleeve...er, well, cargo pants.  And, of course, he’d worn the sleeve.  Much amended of course.

Pushing Draco behind him, he started with the Peruvian ink powder he’d procured while in South America.  The concentrated capsule shot out of the arm sleeve and broke on the werewolves’ chest.  Suddenly the creature was blanketed in darkness which Harry took advantage of to drag Draco immediately out of harm’s way.  At this point, Draco had found some sort of a smooth stick that he was wielding like a sword.  Whatever made him feel better.

“C’mon,” Harry whispered in Draco’s ear and started guiding him.  He tried to keep himself between the werewolf and Draco.  Although Draco was trying to do the same, so they were running circles around each other.

“Where did you get the Instant Darkness Powder?  I didn’t think Wizarding products were imported into the country?”

“I assure you Draco that your local magic store doesn’t stock anything like that.  That was something I picked up in Peru.  I’ll have to tell you about that sometime.”

Draco laughed, although breathily as they were running.  “If we make it.  You are such an idiot.”

“Since I just saved our lives, I think I deserve a bit more credit than that.”

“I’m fairly certain that my _Silen--_ er, stealth has been more useful.”

“Suuuuure…  Your oxfords - and may I say now _what the fuck_ , Draco - are not the quietest choice of shoewear on the market.  When we do this again, I’m going to buy you hiking boots.”

“If you think I’m doing this again, Harry, you’re insane.”  When they got to Draco’s car (which was only a half-mile from the shack), Harry opened the door.  To get out his pack.  “Get in the car, you berk!”

“I can’t just leave!  What about all the people the werewolf will endanger?”  Actually Harry was fairly certain that the Audi would not withstand the strength of a full grown werewolf.  But he wasn’t going to tell Draco that.  Not until they were safely in the Cokeworth Denny’s laughing about this.

“I can alert the Ministry!  Get in the car.  Now!”

“I don’t think politicians are going to do anything, Draco.  I mean, they can’t even legislate health care.  I got this.”  Harry finally extricated a vial from his pack.  And a gun.

“ _What the actual fuck_ , Potter.”  If there wasn’t a car between them, Harry was sure Draco would have cold cocked him.  He actually sounded like he was on the verge of tears.

“Don’t worry, I have a permit.”  Harry opened the vial and poured the powder into his hand.  And then dipped the prongs of his taser in it.  Very carefully as he didn’t want to electrocute himself.  “This is not my first rodeo.”

“As I have observed MANY TIMES, you are a menace to yourself and society.  Will you get in the goddamned car?”  There was a high, pleading note in Draco’s voice.

“Draco.  I love you.  Get in the car and _go_.  I’ll be fine.”

And then Harry walked back towards the werewolf.  He heard the car door slam behind him.  He hoped that Draco had had the good sense to get into the vehicle.  Because he would never forgive himself if something happened to him.

When Harry found the werewolf he tasered it.  While ordinarily a taser would not take out a supernatural beast, the application of unadulterated aconite to the prongs certainly would.  Harry had learned this the first time he’d seen a werewolf in Eastern Europe.  When he’d downed the thing - the aconite wouldn’t actually kill it - he tried to hit it with the second taser clip just in case.  Double tap.  Always.  The second set of prongs did not eject.   _Well shit_.  

And then Draco was there.  With Harry’s Maglite.  And he hit the werewolf in the head.  He must have been stronger than he looked as it worked.

Draco.  Who had not had the good sense to get into the car.  Who was babbling something about Merlin behind him.  “Why didn’t you stay in the car?”  Harry’s right hand was on Draco’s neck.  He wasn’t sure if he wanted to kill him or kiss him.  

“BECAUSE I WAS CANCELLING THE APOCALYPSE!  You are the biggest knob the world has ever seen.  And apparently this Maglite is silver coated.  Which is probably why it worked on the Inferi.”  And then Draco waved his stick in his left hand and the werewolf was now bound in ropes.

“Holy shit.  And that stick was just laying there?  In this field?”

“I’m a wizard, Harry.  It’s a fucking wand.”  And then Draco cast _Obliviate_ on him.  Because - and Harry discovered this later - according to International Statute, Section 93-4, the first action after a muggle finds out about the Wizarding world was to erase their memory.

Not missing a beat Harry looked up at Draco.  “Jesus Christ, Draco, why did you just hit me in the head with your stick?  I would like to think I kissed you senseless, as shown by your complete disregard for personal safety, but you know you’re not really an elven wizard, right?”

“Oh for Christ's Sake,” Draco gritted his teeth while he smiled.  “Of course it wouldn’t work on you.”  Draco seemed rather pleased about this.


	10. Chapter 10

**Ten**

They were sitting in the Audi while they waited for someone from MACUSA to arrive.  Draco had sent his patronus when he thought Harry was going to die.  It had taken ten years off his life.  “I’m almost certainly going to be fired.”  

“Why?  Unless you intend to go waving my Maglite - which was fucking awesome, by the way - at students I’m certain McGonagall is not going to give you a bad reference.  Of course,” Harry continued, “if you continue to believe you’re a wizard you may be admitted into a psychiatric facility.”

Since he was in trouble anyway - and his wand was well and truly out of the bag - Draco used it to produce a series of rainbow colored sparks.  It would have impressed anyone else - but not Harry Potter.

Harry gave Draco a very skeptical look.

“What?  I just conjured a rainbow.  An impressive rainbow if I say so myself.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.  I’m colorblind.”

Draco laughed.  He laughed and laughed and laughed.  “I cannot even believe you’re real Harry.”  It was quiet in the car as they both lapsed into their own thoughts.  He wondered why Vane had never made mention of it.  Or why his personnel files had no record of it.  “If you’re colorblind how do you know that blue is your favorite color?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair.  It sprang right back.  “Okay.  This is going to sound really weird…”

“Weirder than the werewolf we just dealt with?”

“Point taken.  So…” Harry took a deep breath and then said, “Your eyes are what taught me what blue is.”  Even with a five hundred pound werewolf a mile in the field, this seemed like a very important conversation.

Draco considered for a moment.  “How do you know my eyes are blue?”

“Because you _are_ color.”  Harry was so earnest that Draco felt it in his stomach.  “I know your hair is a white-blond.  That your eyebrows are brown.  That your eyes are a very light blue - sometimes grey when you’re mad at me - and that your lips,” Harry reached out to touch them, “Are pink.”  

Draco was silent, although he leaned into Harry’s fingers on his lips.  

“It was kind of overwhelming at first.  But when I met you, you were the first thing I’ve ever seen in color.  It took me a while to figure out what was happening.  I thought I was having a hallucination.  But upon repeated viewings, it did not change.  I have some theories, but nothing concrete.”

“So that’s why you never really look at me.  I thought you hated me.”

“How could I hate you?”  Harry asked sounding incredulous.  “I’m completely in love with you.”

“So you’ve said.”

“And I think I’ve shown you on _multiple_ occasions.”

Draco couldn’t bring himself to say it, so he kissed Harry.  Around the same time MACUSA showed up.

 

♥

 

Harry broke off to exit the vehicle as three people emerged from the copse of trees that ringed the field.  They were in black suits with sunglasses - _amateurs_ \- and Harry knew that they were clearly here to clear the scene.  “You should stay in here.  They’re probably going to try to erase our memories of these events.  Where is your hat, anyway?”

“Harry…”

The first “Man in Black” was, in fact, Felix Leitner.  Harry was not surprised to see him.  The feeling was mutual.  “I would say I’m surprised to see you, Harry, but I’m not.”

“He probably thought you were CIA,” Draco said, coming out from the driver’s side of the Audi.  Harry could feel Draco’s tenseness and took his hand.  Draco let him.

“FBI, Draco.”  Harry turned back to Felix.  “You were always at the dog park when I was there.  And I’m pretty sure you went through my closet.  I usually keep things in a certain order.  I assumed that you had some sort of a safe house nearby.”

“Not… exactly.”  Felix turned to Draco.  

“You put a trace on him?”  Draco sounded horrified.

“You _bugged_ me?”  Harry said at the same time.  But he was excited.  He felt like he had hit the big time.

One of the other agents turned to Draco “I assume the _relashio_ was you?”

“Guilty.”  

“Ministry?”

“Yes.”

“You know there are treaties regarding Ministry involvement on American soil, right?  We registered an _Obliviate_ within proximity to Potter.  Which is _very_ illegal.”

As it turned out, much to Harry’s delight, magic was indeed real.

Harry and Draco were taken to an office in the Magical Congress of the United States of America.  Which was in the Woolworth building.  In New York.  To say that Harry didn’t take to apparating was an understatement.  He ended up vomiting all over one of the agents for which he apologized profusely before vomiting again and then finding a bathroom.  

They tried to stop Draco from following him into the restroom but in his most autocratic tone Draco had said, “And where do you think I’m going to go? You’ve already taken my wand.  And I would like to make sure my _partner_ is alright.”

“ _Are_ you alright?”  Draco asked Harry while he was kneeling over the nearest toilet.  “I would hold your hair back if coming near you wasn’t so disgusting.”  That made Harry laugh.  And he knew he was probably not going to throw up again.  “I would clean you up, but they took my wand.”

“So let me introduce you to something,” Harry said it as if he was a car salesman, “It’s sort of a new thing.  Called paper towels and a sink.”

Once he was feeling a little more human, Draco ran a hand through Harry’s hair.  It sprang right back.  “I’m not sure what’s going to happen.  I have some diplomatic clout and I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure you’re fine.  Because in your parlance, I would shank a bitch for you.  But they’re going to separate us.  The Ministry would - _I would_ \- question you and then _obliviate_ you.  Erase your memories.  Please don’t forget about me.”  Draco had his hand in a death grip.  

“I couldn’t.”  Draco looked very unsure and Harry hugged him without putting his mouth anywhere near Draco’s nose.  He had done a lot of reading on the MIB script.  So if he dropped a pink and purple kid’s gps device in Draco’s pocket - Harry had bought them in bulk from Amazon - without Draco knowing, well it was all for the better he didn’t know.  He had no idea if they could read minds.  “For the record, I am never doing that whole teleportation thing again.”

“I promise you won’t.”

Agents Leitner and Picquary separated them and interrogated them individually.  Harry was not happy about being separated from Malfoy.  But it was not unexpected.

“I really don’t know what else to tell you, guys.”  Harry started immediately.  He didn’t have the patience to wait for the good cop/bad cop dynamic.  “I was pretty sure it was a normal Class I haunting.  I had no idea it was going to be a werewolf.”  They had a very big file on Harry Potter.  “Now I’d like to see Draco.”

“Mr Malfoy will be taken care of.”

“It’s Dr Malfoy,” Harry corrected.  “And if you do medical experiments on him I will not be pleased.  Nor will I continue to comply.”

“We don’t do medical experiments on people.  I have no idea where you get some of these theories.”  Felix actually looked amused.  Harry wondered if the pug was also an agent.

“We have other ways of getting information from you, Mr. Potter.”

“Oh?”  Anyone who knew Harry - who actually knew Harry - would have read the dangerous truculence in his tone.  Something Draco knew well when he’d asked Harry to submit his requisition forms in triplicate.  Handwritten with a Bic blue pen.  He could be a patient man.  Particularly with Draco.  He could be easy going and kind.  Stubby and Rom had raised him with manners.  

But he really didn’t truck with bullshit.  Every citizen of the United States had the unalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.  

And there was a reason Stubby and Rom had lived in Grimmauld, Virginia.  Coming from England with a two year old boy who ended up on the roof without an explanation.  Who had _twice_ put the thought of getting a grounded Harry ice cream into Stubby’s head with a success that Rom put the kibosh on (after Harry had made him stand in the corner).  Who found missing girls in wells.  And who could see Draco Malfoy in color.  He had known for a long time that he was different.  And when he was working with Luna, she had told him that he was probably a government LSD experiment.

Harry was a Drew Barrymore.  And he was angry.

One moment Picquary was sitting across from him trying to stare him down.  

And the next moment the smell of ozone was in the room and the entire building shook to its foundations.  Felix and Picquary reached for their sticks - strike that, _wands_ \- and after an unspoken communication, they immediately left the room.  Harry was left behind.  “I’m just going to go,” Harry said to no one. With a click, the door opened and Harry stood up from his seat.  

After a couple minutes of fiddling with his mobile and walking around a building that did not make any sense, Harry found Draco.  It was a big place.  All the doors were unlocked. Every MACUSA employee within the building were reacting to the attack on Headquarters.  

“Hey, Mr Wizard.  I think we have a standing date at Denny’s tonight.  I’m pretty sure they’re going to be busy for a while.”

“You know,” Draco said, standing and sweeping dust off his clothes.  “You are the luckiest person I have ever met in my life.”

“Draco, we make our own luck.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Eleven**

**  
** It was a crisp October day, the second to be exact, when Malfoy stood in front of his research seminar and went over the abysmal state of the assignment they’d handed in the week before.  “I’m assuming this was hashed together last night, Miss Brown?”  

Lavender Brown, 20, could not refute the charge and was silent in the back row.  The students in the back row - which Malfoy jokingly called the Southern Gatehouse as a nod to the former practice of displaying degeneracy at London Bridge - were often as not the worst performers in his courses.  Malfoy had learned this over the course of his teaching career.  Once in awhile someone would surprise him.

About midway through the seminar, a student in the front row asked him whether he believed that the Cambridge Psychology Department should host a barmy speaker from the States.  “Do you believe it reflects favorably on the long tradition of rationalism this institution stands for?”  The student in question, Justin Finch-Fletchley, 20, had been trying to curry favor with Malfoy since the start of Term.  It had left something of a distaste in Malfoy’s mouth.

For a moment, Malfoy was flummoxed.  He did not believe it reflected favorably on any definition of rationality posited to a rational human being.  But could hardly say that owing to the fact that he had approved the speaker.  “Mr Finch-Fletchley.  One of the most important underpinnings of education is creating a venue to evaluate viewpoints differing from our own.  Whether you believe in the field of Parapsychology or not, it would behoove you at least be receptive to _barmy speakers_.  Even if you may not agree with them.”

“So you’re saying Dr Potter’s research is bullshit?”

Malfoy smiled.  None of his students had seen this smile before and would later describe it as predatory.  They waited to hear him tear the student who deigned to ask it apart.

“Yes.  And you may stay after class.”

At the end of the seminar the rest of the class filed out.  But not without a backward glance towards the foolish student who had posited the question of Malfoy.  A gentleman in tan colored corduroy pants, a white button-down, and a lightning bolt tie, 37, approached the podium.  “Is this going to come to fisticuffs, Mr. Potter?”

“That depends.”  Malfoy arched a brow, his eyes swimming with humor that only one person ever saw.  He knew Harry was going to explain without his having to ask for it.  “On whether you ever learned how to hit someone.”

“I assure you that I am a veritable Gentleman Jack when the need arises.”

“All that stick swinging,” Harry had lowered his voice so only he and Draco could hear, “Has made you rely too much on _crackpot methodologies_.”

“I am _very handy_ with a Maglite.”

“That you are.”  Harry took Draco’s briefcase - because of course Draco carried a briefcase - and they slowly walked towards the exit.  “I think I’ll keep you, Draco Malfoy.”

“I think at this point you really don’t have any choice in the matter.  You’re the only human being, short of my Mother, who Bellatrix likes.”

“Everyone likes me.”

“True.  But I _love_ you.”

 

♥

 

The house just outside of Tintangel, once owned by James and Lily Evans-Potter, had once been a modest “hunting lodge.”  To most people, it appeared to be a pile of mouldering rocks.

Before leaving the country in earnest, Harry had taken Draco to Grimmauld, Virginia.  He wanted to introduce him to his family.  Stubby had been covered in motor oil, as per usual, and Rom hospitable as always.  “So you’re Draco Malfoy,” he noted as they took their mint juleps on the porch.  

“Yes I am.”

“What I want to know,” Stubby said from the top step with his back to the railing, “Is whether you can keep _our_ Harry in the style he’s accustomed to.  I’ve heard that _your kind_ can be a little insular.”

“Stubby...”  Harry had once called Stubby Dad and he had corrected him.   _You already have a dad, Harry.  James Potter.  I’m just Stubby._  And then he would show him pictures while he regaled him with stories of his parents.  If he were to believe all of his tall tales, Harry would have thought that James Potter was a wizard himself.

“Well, he does have a point,” Rom added from the rocking chair.  “It is important that someone _understand_ Harry’s unique talent… for the strange.  And appreciate him for what he _is_.”

“I love Harry.”  Draco said and Harry wasn’t sure if he would ever get tired of it.  “I would do everything in my power to keep him in the style he’s accustomed to.  As if I could stop him.”

“That’s my boy,” Stubby said with a grin.  He was drinking a can of Miller Lite.  “James Potter’s son through and through.”

“I would like to think the Potter in him was tempered somewhat by other influences.”

“The Potter always out, Rom.  It always does.”

Afterward, Rom handed Harry an envelope that contained a deed.  A deed to a house in Godric’s Hollow.  Not far from where Jim and Lily Evans Potter had died so many years ago.  “I’ve been keeping this secret for a long time, Harry.  This is rightfully yours.”  And then Rom hugged him.  “Don’t be a stranger though.  And keep a room open for us.  I think I can convince Pads,” Rom always called Stubby Pads, “To come visit you.”

Stubby had had much the same to say.  But always less eloquently.  “If that Malfoy turns out to be an asshole, you let me know.  I’ll sort it out.”

Harry smiled.  “He is an _asshole_.  It’s kind of why I like him.”

After the deed was passed, Harry found that the ‘hunting lodge’ was in decent but neglected shape.  “I think this is technically within the boundary of Godric’s Hollow,” Draco had mentioned when they’d gone to see it.  “Although the Muggle registry puts it in Cornwall proper.”

Now it was being remodeled to house Harry, Draco, and Padfoot.  Harry figured that Draco needed a place to live that wasn’t also housing Mrs M.  She was a very nice if overwhelming woman who he’d convinced to shoot wine bottles off the fireplace with her wand when she was drunk.  Draco made him sleep on the couch for a week after that one.  But it was totally worth it.  At the moment, they were in Draco’s MI6 digs in London.  Draco had found an antique closet that allowed Harry to get to work.  In Cokeworth.  He joked every morning about going to “Narnia,” and Draco still didn’t get it.  But he showed promise.

It was during a weekend visit, when three rooms of the house were habitable, that Harry mentioned that he might like to make a fire.  He was being polite as Draco was not wearing any clothes.  And the house was drafty.  And that stupid ghost rabbit was back again, telling Draco that he was a blood traitor to the House of Malfoy.  Harry would have put a cross up like he was meaning to, but Padfoot liked to chase it around the house.  And since it pretty much said the same thing every time it showed up, he’d put the words to _Crazy For You_.  He would deny it, but sometimes Draco could be heard humming a few bars of it.

“Do you know how to make a fire?”  Draco asked.  He was of course drinking tea.  Although Draco drinking tea in the buff always made Harry nervous.

“I’m familiar with the concept of combustion, yes.”  

“Just remember to open the flue.”

Harry assumed that the iron knob by the fireplace opened the flue.  It had not yet been remodeled, but at some point during the Potter’s short tenure it had been capped.  Otherwise heating costs would be prohibitive.  Especially on professorial salaries.  Malfoy maintained that he was wealthy but his funds were just _tied up_.  But Harry didn’t think galleons were real currency.  It certainly did not pay the construction company.  

As soon as he opened the flue, a gust of wind shot down the fireplace.  Dust and general debris came with it and Harry caught a mouthful.  It was not the most nutritious thing he’d ever had in his mouth, but he’d live.  

Harry found a broom and started to tidy up.  Draco would not appreciate the mess.  As he did so, he noticed a small, vellum envelope that was addressed to _Mr. Harry Potter.  Potter House.  Godric’s Hollow._  It had a wax seal and was smudged with what Harry assumed was years of the same stuff that was currently making his mouth taste like ashes.  

“Hey Draco,” Harry called out to the next room.  One of the benefits of only having three habitable rooms was that they could hear each other wherever they were.  “Check this out.”

After a few minutes, Draco finally came into the room.  He had pulled on his trousers.  Which really was a shame.  “Merlin’s beard, what happened in here?”  Padfoot, who had formed an attachment to Draco that Draco nervously accepted, followed him.

“That’s not important now.  Check this out.”  He handed Draco the envelope.

Draco gave Harry a queer look as he turned the envelope around.  “Are you sure you want me to open this?”

“I don’t see why not.  It’s probably just an old letter.  Not as cool as the little broomstick we found in the closet.”  With his usual precision, Draco cracked open the letter.  “What does it say?”  


_Dear Mr Harry Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

_Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.  Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Tom M. Riddle_

_Deputy Headmaster_


End file.
